Heartbeat
by SherLOCKED79
Summary: Mpreg and Parentlock! When an unfortunate accident leaves Sherlock Holmes pregnant with a child he never expected he'd want, will the detective be able to cope with the hardships of bearing a child… Will John? Rated M for mature content towards the end and possible language.
1. Chapter One: A Discovery

Chapter One: A Discovery

_**1 week, 4 days**_

"Sherlock? Sherlock?!" John yelled, crashing through yet another set of doors in the filthy building. "Oh god," the doctor gasped, stopping in his tracks as he entered the room. Lying on the ground, nearly ten yards away, Sherlock lay in a crumpled heap, completely naked, save for a thin sheet covering his modesty.

John froze, staring at his friend's battered and broken body, eyes immediately taking notice of the gashes and bruises littering the detective's alabaster skin.

"Sherlock," he sighed sadly, both relief and incredible sadness flooding his veins. "Greg! He's here, he's here! I've got him! We need the stretcher!" the doctor called, yelling over his shoulder towards the Inspector. Heart racing with the prospect that his friend could be dead, John quickly pulled off his coat and hurried towards the corner, unsure of what he would find.

"Sherlock?" he asked quietly once he reached the detective's body. The doctor sighed in relief as he noticed Sherlock's chest moving up and down, though the breathing seemed shallow, too quick.

"John? John, where is—" Lestrade stopped in the doorway, flashlight in his hand as he stared at the scene in front of him. "Back!" he barked over his shoulder. "Stay out! Only the stretcher. John, is he okay?"

"He's breathing, but he's got all sorts of lacerations and bruises..."

"God," Lestrade muttered sadly, gazing at his friend's broken body.

"Sherlock?" John whispered, quickly kneeling down and wrapping his coat around the detective's limp form. "Sherlock, we found him. Moran's dead. We've got you," he whispered, shaking the man's arm and attempting to lift him up.

Upon hearing John's voice, Sherlock groggily opened his eyes, gazing off into nowhere.

"Oh," John sighed sadly, staring into his friend's foggy eyes. It was quite clear the detective had been drugged, and heavily, at that. But John still held onto a small glimmer of hope as he stared into Sherlock's ever-changing grey eyes and saw, underneath layers of a drug-induced fog, that there was still that spark of cunning... John could still see his friend's brilliant mind working, despite the effects of the drug.

"Thank god," he whispered quietly, wrapping the coat further around Sherlock's freezing body. "Damn it! Where on earth is the stretcher?"

With a huff of angry annoyance, Lestrade marched off towards the door, face flushing a bright red as he prepared to yell down the hallway. Just as the Inspector took a deep breath, several men hurried into the room, a long stretcher in their hands.

"It's about _bloody_ time," John all-but-growled as the men hurried over, and started to lift Sherlock's limp form onto the white sheets.

"Hmm... Joh... J..." Sherlock managed, brows pulling together as his chest heaved up and down with labored breaths.

"Sherlock? Shh... Shh, it's all right. I'm right here and Greg's just there," John said quietly, hurrying towards the detective.

"Mor... Uhm..." Sherlock's head tiredly lolled to the side as the stretcher started to move.

"Shh. Just rest now, Sherlock. I'll explain everything later. Just rest."

With an infinitesimal nod of his head, the detective's eyes slowly slid shut, his entire body going limp as he slipped away into a much-deserved sleep.

* * *

**_2 weeks_**

Sherlock awoke with a start, the memories of the past week and a half suddenly flooding back in a stinging rush of emotion. The detective gasped quietly at the realizations of what had happened, squeezing his eyes shut as he desperately tried to shove away the aching onslaught of recollections; desperately tried to shove away the memory of Moran on top of him... The pain and terror as he...

_No_. Sherlock silently scolded himself, tangling a fist in the sheets as he forced the memory, the _feeling_ away. The detective frowned upon feeling the distinctive crispness of the papery fabric beneath his fingers. _Hospital bed. Not home._

With a soft huff of a breath, Sherlock opened his eyes, the steel-grey orbs expertly scanning around the bright room. The detective paused as his gaze fell upon John. The doctor was sitting in a very uncomfortable-looking hospital chair, holding his head in his hands while he simultaneously massaged his forehead, muttering tiredly to himself.

Squinting slightly as he assessed his friend, Sherlock took note of the doctor's unwashed hair; noticed the light stubble on his face. _Has not eaten in eight hours. Has not shaved in at least four days. Significant weight loss. At least five pounds._ _Has not slept for at least 27 hours... Clothes are three days old... Total number of days I have been in the hospital is three._

"Three days?" the detective asked quietly, his deep, baritone voice filling the otherwise-silent room.

John nearly fell out of the chair as he jumped at the sound of his friend's voice. "Sherlock?" he gasped in amazement, a small, almost hopeful smile gracing his lips. "You're awake!"

"Obviously," Sherlock almost chuckled, something of a smile forming on his lips. He flinched slightly, as the motion hurt him, sending a rush of pain and dizziness to his head. "How badly?" he asked, now serious, looking up at John with questioning eyes as the doctor quickly approached.

Running his fingers through his short, sandy hair, John's face suddenly became somber as he stared at his injured friend. "Pretty badly," he said quietly, hovering near Sherlock's bed. "Several broken ribs... Too many cuts and bruises to count..."

Sherlock nodded, trying to gain the courage to ask the question he knew John was waiting for. "John," he started quietly, averting his gaze and staring at the ground. The detective's fingers were already clutching the thin fabric of the hospital sheet between his fingers, his knuckles turning white from the grip. "Did he..."

"Yes," John whispered quietly, watching his friend with sad eyes. "He did. I—I'm sorry, Sherlock." The doctor waited silently, feeling a strange stab of pain course through his chest as the noticed the broken realization flash across his friend's eyes. "I'm sorry," he repeated softly, and without thinking, reached forward, taking Sherlock's hand in his own. "Really."

Trying to keep the rush of emotions he was feeling in check, the detective allowed John to grab his hand, not even shying away at the rare show of physical affection.

The two remained like that, the doctor holding his friend's hand, Sherlock holding back the tears threatening to spill over, and John pretending he didn't see any of it happening.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock managed eventually, voice raw with emotion and sounding strangely broken.

"Of course." With a weak attempt at a reassuring smile, John released the detective's hand.

Sherlock quickly cleared his throat and sat up in the bed, frowning slightly at the dizziness that washed over him.

"Mmm," he grumbled unhappily, kneading his slender fingers into his temple. "John?"

"Yeah?"

"When can I get out of this bloody hospital and into some _real_ clothes?" he asked, glaring down at the thin hospital gown covering his frame.

There was a slight pause. John just stared at his friend, who gazed back, completely serious.

"Pfha!" John cried, suddenly bursting into laughter at his flat mate's request.

Sherlock managed a weak chuckle of his own, a small smile gracing his lips as he laughed with the doctor.

"Ohh," John sighed, wiping away at the corners of his eyes. "I'll go see what I can do, all right?" he chuckled, giving Sherlock a warm smile before hurrying out of the room.

* * *

Sherlock was discharged from the hospital the next day, after terrorizing all of the nurses and doctors, informing each and every one of them about the embarrassing secrets of their lives, whether it be about their cheating wife, heroine-addicted son or telling them that they were about to go on a date with a person who was already married. Needless to say, the staff was all the more eager to get the detective out.

Though it took a few days to get back into the swing of things, with much help from John, Sherlock was quickly back on his feet, and plunging full force into as many cases as Lestrade could hand him.

And, though the detective tried to make it seem as if it was merely because of lack of brain stimulation, John knew that the real reason Sherlock was so desperate to immerse himself in his work was so that he could try to forget the horror of what had happened while in Moran's presence. And the doctor was perfectly fine to leave it be like that...

* * *

_**7 weeks**_

When John returned home from surgery, takeaway in hand, he was welcomed by a completely silent flat.

Brows pulling together in confusion and mild worry, the doctor quickly hurried up the stairs, and entered the flat, tucking his keys into his pocket.

"Sherlock?" he called, quickly double-checking the kitchen to make sure he had not missed the detective on the way up. John frowned as he saw several papers resting on the top of small table, a few more scattered about the ground. Upon closer inspection, he noticed that, scribbled across several of the papers, was Sherlock's distinctive handwriting.

Fearing the worst, John hurried back into the sitting room. "Sherlock?" he called worriedly, already pulling out his phone. The doctor paused, however, upon hearing a soft, muffled shuffling sound coming from Sherlock's room.

Frowning slightly, John hurried into his flat mate's room, not even bothering to knock. "Sherlock?" he called again. "Oh," he sighed quietly upon turning towards his friend's bathroom and seeing the detective's thin frame dry heaving into the toilet, his pale skin somehow seeming almost translucent in the dim light as he grasped onto the side of the bowl.

"Sherlock, are you all right?" John asked worriedly, pausing in the doorway. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Sherlock sick—couldn't remember if the detective had ever even _been_ sick!

"Yes, John. I'm fine," the detective sighed, quickly shoving himself away from the toilet. "Just a little bit of nausea, that's all."

"Okay... Well I brought takeaway, if you're interested. Chinese. But if you're—"

"I'm fine, John. Thank you. I'll uhh... Be out in a moment."

John stared at his friend, eyeing him with a skeptical gaze. "Right. Okay. See you in a few." With a few moment's hesitation, the doctor turned, and headed into the kitchen, deciding he'd make a smaller plate for his flat mate.

Sherlock watched as John left, managing a small, reassuring smile for the doctor. Once he knew his friend was out of earshot, the detective moved to the sink, bracing himself with his hands as he bowed his head, brow furrowing in discomfort.

Quirking his lips as he tired to ignore a new wave of nausea, Sherlock looked up, assessing himself in the mirror. He frowned slightly upon seeing how pale he seemed, how hollow his cheeks appeared. The detective, himself, couldn't even remember when he had last been ill, and the thought only made his frown deepen. After all, he was Sherlock Holmes. And Sherlock Holmes did not just... _Get_ sick.

A strange feeling in the pit of his stomach, Sherlock started some cold water running in the sink, cupped a handful of the cool liquid in his hand and splashed it across the face, enjoying the refreshing feel of it over his warm cheeks.

"Mmm," he sighed, releasing the sink as he straightened, promptly tucking in some of his purple shirt that had become undone. Clearing his throat, Sherlock crouched down, grabbing his suit jacket (which he had discarded in his dash for the bathroom) and wrapped it around his thin frame, buttoning it as he stared at himself in the mirror. With a small nod of his head at his reflection, the detective smoothed down the front of his suit and left the bathroom, already feeling another wave of nausea burning in his stomach as he was assaulted by the smell of Chinese.

"Thank you," Sherlock thanked silently as he sat down at the table, ignoring how strangely potent the food was smelling.

"Sure," John replied hesitantly, taking notice of how uncomfortable his flat mate looked. "So did you get anywhere with the uhh... Oh, the diamond case?"

"Oh," the detective scoffed, giving John a massive eye roll. "It was too easy. _Ridiculously_ easy, even! It was obviously in the gardener's wallet," he sighed dramatically, twirling a few noodles onto his fork. "I keep insisting that Lestrade should not trouble me with such trivial cases as that."

"Right," John chuckled sarcastically, shoving a few forkfuls of the food into his mouth. "Of course he shouldn't. Anyway... I noticed the papers in here... New case? Or just notes."

"Hmm? Oh, these? No, they're just—" Sherlock stopped mid-sentence as he moved the fork to his mouth, placing the greasy meal into his mouth. Covering his lips with his hand, the detective hurried out of the room, barely making it to the toilet as he threw up, this time emptying the few contents of his stomach into the bowl.

John quickly followed after, his worry only worsening as he saw Sherlock start to vomit into the toilet. "Seriously, Sherlock, are you sure you're all right?"

"Mmm," the detective managed in reply, a thin sheen of sweat slowly forming on his forehead as he coughed, trying to clear his mouth of the bitter taste. "Yes, John. I am still a grown man and am more than perfectly capable of taking care of my—"

John watched, frowning sadly at his flat mate's thin form as the detective once again vomited, clinging to the side of the bowl as his whole body convulsed.

"Okay, okay," he sighed, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. "Just... Concerned, that's all. In the years I've known you, I've never even seen you have so much as a cold. So this seems _uncharacteristically_ out of character."

"Yes. Although, human biology requires me to become ill every once in a while. Though," Sherlock sighed, shoving away from the toilet and resting his head against the bathtub. "I must admit even _I_ can't remember the last time I was ill."

"Hmm... Maybe you just caught a bug or something."

"Yes," the detective murmured, kneading his slender fingers into his forehead as he focused on taking deep breaths through his mouth.

"Right. Well, I'm probably going to head off to bed; I've had a long day. You're sure you'll be..." A glare. "Yes. Right. Sorry. Well, I'll uhh... See you tomorrow." With a reassuring smile, the doctor turned, quickly exiting the detective's room and making his way to his own.

Still rubbing at his forehead, Sherlock allowed his body to go limp against the tub now that John was gone. The detective groaned loudly as he could feel another surge of nausea, though he knew the contents of his stomach had been completely emptied. Pushing his worry aside, Sherlock leaned back forward, not noticing as a single hot tear slid out of the corner of his eyes as he started to retch again.

* * *

The next morning, after getting ready, John slowly meandered downstairs.

"Ah," he sighed, almsot in relief, upon seeing Sherlock, seated at his microscope, scribbling notes away onto a piece of paper. "Feeling better?"

"Mmm," the detective hummed in response, too immersed in his work to bother with a real response.

"Good," John chuckled, moving into the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee. "Any luck?"

"No. Markings don't make any sense."

"Markings?"

"Here. And here," Sherlock said tersely, showing John several pictures.

"Mmm," the doctor hummed, carefully examining the photos. "You're right; they don't make any sense."

"Yes."

"Right. Shoot! I've got to be off. I promised Sarah I'd be there early today. See you?"

"Mmm." Chuckling softly at his friend, John quickly tugged on his coat and hurried out the flat.

* * *

When the doctor returned home from surgery, he was worried to once again find Sherlock hunched over the toilet, heaving up the little food he'd had in his stomach.

And that's how it went for the next three days; John would get up in the morning to see his flat mate, looking completely fine and well, and the return from work to find the detective hunched over the toilet, heaving into the bowl.

"That's it!" he cried after the fourth day. "Come on. I'm taking you to the hospital."

Weak from the lack of food and fluid in his system, the detective gave a feeble nod of his head, clearing his throat as he pulled himself into a standing position. "Fine." Pressing his lips together in a crisp line, Sherlock followed John and exited the bathroom, pulling on his coat and fixing his scarf around his neck.

The doctor couldn't help but chuckle at how pristine Sherlock still looked, despite having been confined to a bathroom the past four days, all-but-puking his guts out.

"Ready?" he asked, hand hovering over the front doorknob.

"Yes," Sherlock murmured, giving a tiny nod of his head.

"All right."

* * *

Knowing nobody would be in at such a late hour, John quickly ushered his flat mate into a room, flicking on the lights and washing the room with the bright light. Sherlock flinched slightly at the offending flash, but then turned his attention to John, linking his hands behind his back and waiting expectantly for instructions.

"Right. Now just uhh... Hop on the... Up there, I guess," the doctor said awkwardly. For some reason this was so much more difficult to do with Sherlock than with an actual patient, though he couldn't quite place why.

Smirking at his friend, Sherlock quickly shed his coat and moved onto the cot. He frowned slightly at the crinkly feeling of the paper sheet underneath.

"Good," John sighed, moving over towards his friend's thin form. "Now, I'm going to need to feel around your stomach, all right? Is that okay?"

"Fine," Sherlock chuckled, amused by John's obvious discomfort.

"Right. I'll need you to pull your shirt up."

Still smirking, the detective settled (as much as he could) into the paper sheets and undid his jacket before untucking and pulling out his shirt, exposing his flat stomach, which, when he was lying down, curved in ever so slightly, forming a subtle, concave dip.

Quickly switching into doctor mode, John rolled up his sleeves, shooting Sherlock a dithering look at his saw how thin the detective was. Turning his attention back to his friend's flat stomach, the doctor grabbed one of the tiny chairs with wheels and rolled over to Sherlock's right side. "Right," he murmured, placing his hands on either side of the detective's abdomen. "I'm just going to feel around here; see if anything seems out of place."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at John's professionalism, but remained silent as the doctor started to rub around his abdomen, moving his skilled fingers in careful circles up and down his middle.

"Well," he sighed a few moments late, still rubbing his fingertips into Sherlock's skin. "I don't fell anything out of place... So I think... Well..."

Sherlock watched as John's eyebrows slowly pulled together. It was clear to him that the doctor had felt something out of place. "What?" he asked anxiously, watching as John's fingers continued to rub circles around a particular spot on his stomach. "What have you felt?"

"I'm not... It feels like... Just a moment. I'm going to try an ultrasound," he murmured to himself, brows drawing even further together as he removed his fingers from Sherlock's middle. Ever the doctor, though, once he saw his friend's worried expression, John gave the detective a warm smile. "It's probably nothing; I just want to check and make sure," he said reassuringly, quickly sliding off the chair and moving towards one of the cabinets.

Sherlock flinched slightly as the rolling chair hit the wall with a soft _clink, _already feeling unwell and now even more on edge with John not telling him what he'd found.

"Ah. Here we are," the doctor sighed, pulling out the sonogram machine and getting it ready. "Now," he started, positioning himself back on the chair and moving over to Sherlock once again. "I'm going have to put some of this on your stomach, all right? It's going to be cold."

Eyeing the doctor suspiciously, Sherlock gave a small nod of his head, watching as John squirted the glossy liquid onto his stomach. The detective's lips twitched up in mild discomfort at the sudden cold, but he quickly relaxed as John pressed the wand to his stomach.

"Right. Okay... I'm just going to... Move this around here and see... What we've got—" Suddenly, the doctor stopped, eyes frozen on the screen positioned just above Sherlock's head. His entire body stopped, as well, and the wand remained frozen in its spot on the detective's stomach, making the ultrasound image even more clear and obvious. "Shit," John muttered, eyes suddenly becoming sad as he stared at the image.

"What?" Sherlock cried anxiously, body straining as he turned around in a desperate attempt to glimpse the image his flat mate was looking at. "What? John, please tell me!"

"Sherlock," John breathed, tearing his eyes away from the screen and managing a small smile for his friend. "You're pregnant."


	2. Chapter Two: A Decision

Chapter Two: A Decision

"Sherlock," John breathed, tearing his eyes away from the screen and managing a small smile for his friend. "You're pregnant."

Sherlock's whole body seemed to stop mid-breath. Suddenly, there was a constricting weight deep in his chest and he couldn't breath; his mind was not allowing him to think straight, instantly flooding with the statistics of how impossible this was, how slim of a chance there was for something like this to even occur!

"What?" he finally managed, voice straining from the lack of air. "I—that's impossible, John—I—I can't—can't possibly be—"

"Look," John urged quietly, gesturing to the screen with his free hand. "I guess you're a carrier. It's rare, but... Not impossible."

Chest heaving with terrified, unbelieving breaths, Sherlock turned, eyes frantically scanning back and forth over the screen. A strangled sob escaped his lips as the detective saw the image—the image coming from inside of him. Sure enough, in a sea of fuzzy grey, there was a little blob of black, and nestled safely inside... Was an incredibly tiny, barely distinguishable human being.

"See?" John murmured quietly, carefully studying Sherlock's features for signs of anything; anger, sadness, joy, fear...

Stricken by what he was seeing, the detective merely stared at the image of the tiny human being inside of him, unable to process the proper information. "So the sickness..." he started, voice just a whisper as his eyes remained glued to the screen.

"Morning sickness," John inputted, smiling sadly at his friend. "Right on time, too. Judging by the size, I'd guess your baby's about 6 to 7 weeks old."

Sherlock froze at John's words, his eyes falling just below the screen as he came to a sudden, blinding realization... The child's DNA was a mix of his and... "Moran," came the detective's strangled whisper. Eyes filled with fear and contempt, Sherlock turned his attention to John, not even noticing how he was gripping the papery sheet beneath him. "John," he choked out.

"Sherlock," John started slowly, taking one of his friend's shaking hands in his own. "I'm so sorry... But—"

"I want it terminated. Immediately," the detective suddenly inputted quietly, face now completely blank as he stared at the wall, though John could see the storm raging behind those grey-green irises.

"Sherlock," John started carefully, watching his friend with hesitant eyes. "Come on, I think you really need to think about this. I mean, you have a human _life_ inside of you, and just because Moran... Well, it doesn't mean the baby deserves—"

"I want. It. Terminated," Sherlock practically spat, pressing his mouth into a tight line as he sat up in the bed.

"Sherlock!" John called, anger burning in the pit of his stomach as he watched his flat mate hop off the cot, and snatch a towel from the dispenser, wiping off the shiny gel covering his stomach. "Why? Just because you're upset that _Moran_ put it inside you? Is that why?" he shouted, glaring at the detective.

"Men don't have _babies_!" Sherlock countered, turning on his heel to stare at John. "It's abnormal, John! I couldn't care less about the DNA of the child! But I don't need one more reason to be called a freak!"

John froze in his position, any words he was going to say caught in his throat as he saw tears in Sherlock's eyes; noticed how a few had slipped down the detective's cheeks and left a wet trail where they had traveled.

Unfazed by John's clearly shocked expression, Sherlock continued, suddenly unable to stop the stream of emotion flooding through him. "Of course. _I_ would be the one man in who knows how many who have the ability to carry a child! Just what I need. Furthermore, you and I both know I am most definitely _not_ father material, John! Bringing this child into the world would be far more cruel than taking it out right now! Can't you see that? This is—It's not—John, I can't!" Chest heaving, Sherlock ran a thin hand through his raven curls, a few more tears sliding free as he did so.

"Do whatever the hell you want," John fumed, pulling on his coat and stomping towards the door. "But I cannot condone you taking that baby's life just because _you_ think it's unfair!" Face flushed red with anger, the doctor quickly turned on his heel, slamming the door shut behind him, leaving Sherlock alone in an empty hospital room.

Wiping away at his tear-stained cheeks, the detective quickly pulled his mobile out of his pocket, punched in the numbers a little more forcefully than usual and held the mobile up to his ear.

"Mycroft? Yes. It's me. I need a favor."

* * *

Several hours later, Sherlock was resting on the white sheets of a hospital-style cot, similar to the one he had been lying on earlier with John. The detective waited silently as a nurse came in, flipping nonchalantly through some pages on a clipboard.

"Hello Mr. Holm," she sighed, taking a seat in the chair next to the bed and turning on the ultrasound machine.

"Holmes," Sherlock corrected half-heartedly.

"Yes. Shirt up, please? Going to be cold," she said quietly, sounding incredibly bored as she squirted some of the clear liquid onto his stomach.

"Just have to find the baby to check and make sure everything..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes as the woman trailed off, allowing her to massage the gel around his exposed abdomen.

"Okay. Here we go," she sighed dramatically, placing the wand to the detective's stomach. "Where is the little guy... There it is. It's young. Good. Makes our job that much easier."

Sherlock couldn't help but shiver at her words as a trail of goosebumps traveled up and down his body.

Though he silently scolded himself for doing so, the detective dared a glance back towards the monitor. His eyes saddened as he stared at the tiny image of the child... His child...

And then, with a tiny movement of the wand across his middle, there came a gentle thrumming, almost like the distant galloping of horses.

"Wait, wait! Go back," Sherlock said hurriedly to the nurse. "What was that?" he asked, as the sound once again reappeared.

"Heartbeat," she answered nonchalantly, giving the detective a puzzled look and a quirked eyebrow.

"Heartbeat," Sherlock repeated softly, voice just a whisper as he stared at the image. "It has a heartbeat."

"Well of course it does, it's alive, after all," the nurse almost chuckled, giving Sherlock a dithering look as she pulled the wand away, and with it the image of his child and the sound of its heartbeat.

"Heartbeat..."

* * *

John had instantly regretted everything he'd said as soon as he left the hospital. Knowing Sherlock had probably already returned to the flat, but wanting to give his friend some time to think over everything, the doctor drove around in a cab for several hours, and then eventually ended up at his sister's.

Groaning as he woke up just as morning was starting to break, John figured now would be good a time as any to go and face his flat mate. Quickly tugging on his coat and leaving a note for Harry, the doctor slipped outside and into the brisk dawn air.

* * *

Running his fingers through his sandy hair, John took a deep breath as he entered the flat, thinking of how to best phrase what he wanted to say.

"Sherlock?" he started quietly as he rounded the corner of the stairs, hurrying up into the flat. He stopped in the doorway upon seeing Sherlock, curled into a ball in his chair, whole body shaking as sobs coursed through him.

"Oh, Sherlock," the doctor sighed sadly, hurrying over towards his friend, taking the chair opposite. "What happened?"

Hastily trying to wipe away the tears that were still streaming down his face, the detective only curled further inward, embarrassed at having been seen like this. "I went," he said quietly, pressing the heel of his palm underneath his eye.

"Oh," John sighed quietly, gaze falling to the ground as he linked his fingers together, propping his elbows up on his knees. "And uhh... How did that go?"

"I couldn't do it, John," Sherlock sobbed suddenly, tugging angrily at his raven curls.

"What? What do you mean you couldn't do it?"

"I—The woman, s—she used the ultrasound and, and... Just over this one spot... There was a heartbeat, John... A _heartbeat_," the detective sniffled, trying to calm himself. "And I... I just couldn't... Because, for some reason, with that tiny beating... I realized that it was coming from a little person, John. _Inside_ of me. An incredibly small... Defenseless... Human being. And I just... I couldn't bear to go through with it..."

John listened carefully and watched with soft eyes, not used to seeing his friend so unwound. Taking at it as encouragement, Sherlock continued, breathing slowly returning to normal as he spoke his thoughts aloud.

"It was so small, John," he whispered, a thin hand absentmindedly moving to rest across his stomach. "Its heart sounded so tiny and light. And I couldn't help but feel... Protective of it, somehow. Almost as if _I_ was the only one who could shield it; I felt like I _should_ protect it. I just couldn't do it... I am many things, John. But a murderer is not one of them..." Realizing that he had been cradling his still-flat stomach, Sherlock quickly let his hand fall, face flushing light pink.

"I'm glad," John said simply, reaching forward to place a gentle hand to his friend's arm. "I am... And there's no need to feel embarrassed. A little emotion now and then isn't a bad thing."

Sherlock managed a small chuckle at this, giving the doctor a thankful smile.

"So," John sighed, pulling his hand away, in an attempt to lighten the mood. "Do you have any questions?"

Quickly collecting himself and sitting up straight in his chair as he cleared away the rest of his tears, Sherlock thought for a moment. "It... I saw it move. On the screen, I mean. But I couldn't feel anything."

"No," John chuckled, leaning back in his own chair. "You won't be able to until about week 17 or so. Though, typically thinner wom... People tend to feel the kicks sooner.

"John," Sherlock sighed dramatically, giving the doctor an eye roll. "You can say women. I'm not going to break. In fact, I'd prefer you use the term women, so as to be more statistically accurate. Go on. Tell me everything that's going to happen. I want to know. I... Ahem. Must admit that I am not quite as knowledgable in this area as I am in most."

"Oh. Well..." Heaving a sigh, John crossed his legs, linking his fingers atop the arm of the chair. "I suppose the most obvious thing is the growth around the stomach. You have a rather long torso, so the bump shouldn't be quite as noticeable as it would on an average woman. Oh! And from now on, you _must_ start to eat more. You have another person to feed now. God knows the poor thing is probably already starving. Next, I suppose—"

"Wait, wait. How does the child get sustenance, and what does that have to do with me?" Sherlock asked confusedly.

"Oh," John sighed, momentarily taken aback as it occurred to him that the detective obviously didn't know much, if _anything_ about a child in the womb. "There's something called an umbilical cord. That feeds into the baby, providing it with the nutrition it needs so it can grow. However, it takes what it needs from _your_ diet, hence the need for you to actually _eat_." The doctor gave his friend a knowing smile, which was returned by quick quirk of the detective's lips.

"Noted. Will we be able to continue our work?"

"Well we certainly won't be able to go chasing criminals around the streets of London, no. And to be honest, as the pregnancy progresses, you might not want to continue working."

"What?" Sherlock asked incredulously, face clearly expressing his shock that John could even _suggest_ such a thing. "Why would I not want to continue my work?"

"Well, it's possible you may want to, I was merely making a suggestion. Don't worry, don't worry. It's just that working that much might become a little tiresome after awhile. And I think you might find that you'll prefer to take a few a few breaks every now and again, that's all. Don't freak out," he chuckled.

"Fine. And the sickness?"

"Just differs. It should end in the next couple of weeks."

"I see," Sherlock murmured, gaze falling to the floor as he steepled his hands, pressing them to his lips.

"Hey. It'll be all right. I promise," John reassured gently, giving his friend a warm smile. "Would you like a few moments to yourself?"

"Please."

"Right. I'll go out and get food. Anything sound good?"

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed in reply, already slipping away into his thoughts.

"Right," John chuckled, turning around and hurrying out of the flat.

* * *

**_8 weeks_**

Several days later, Sherlock was lying on the couch, fingers steepled under his chin as he attempted to undo the mystery of a case. With a loud huff at have been stumped once again by the case, Sherlock shoved himself away from the couch, frowning as he ruffled his fingers through his raven curls.

"John?" he called, agitated, standing up and throwing his robe behind him as he paced. "John!" When no response came, the detective assumed his flat mate had left, but would probably be back shortly.

Deciding he needed to clear his head, and far too busy (lazy) to bother with getting dressed to go outside, Sherlock decided he would merely have to resort to taking a shower in an attempt to help his thoughts. Stomping as he went, the detective hurried into the bathroom and switched the water on, enjoying the constant sound of the droplets hitting the surface of the shower.

Putting a momentary pause on the case, Sherlock quickly tugged off his shirt and made to pull of his trousers, but stopped suddenly as he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Breath halting to a painful stop in his throat, the detective moved closer, eyes staring intently at his stomach; at the slight bulge of skin around his middle.

Trying to catch his breath as he stared at his abdomen, Sherlock felt a faint fluttering in his chest, as he absentmindedly cradled the tiny bulge... The evidence of his child.

"Oh," he sighed, almost in amazement as he flattened his palm over the skin. Tearing his eyes away from the reflection, Sherlock turned his gaze to his stomach, watching in sheer wonder as he brushed his thumb across the pale flesh. "So you're really in there, hmm?" he murmured quietly, staring down at his middle as he continued to stroke his thumb over the bump. "Amazing."

Keeping his palm flattened across his abdomen, Sherlock quickly shed his pants and trousers and slipped into the shower, enjoying the soothing feel of the warm droplets on his skin.

The detective kept finding himself touching his stomach, cradling it, caressing the skin.

With an almost embarrassed huff of breath, Sherlock quickly exited the shower, not wanting to admit to himself that he may be becoming attached to the unwanted child forming in his middle. Lips quirking up as he glanced at the swell of his stomach in the mirror, the detective quickly dried himself off and threw on his robe, not even bothering to get properly dressed.

Ignoring how strangely noticeable his stomach was feeling, Sherlock padded into the kitchen and paused in the doorway, remembering what John had told him about needing to eat more to help the baby. With a soft groan and an eyeroll, the detective hurried towards one of the cabinets and pulled out a loaf of unopened bread, knowing that even though he was not hungry (he never really was nowadays), he should eat something.

Trying to ignore the way he had absentmindedly brushed his fingertips across his stomach, Sherlock opened the plastic and pulled out two loaves and bread. "Forcing me to eat," he mumbled unhappily as he shoved the bread into the toaster.

Drumming his fingers against the countertop, Sherlock waited impatiently until the bread finished, then quickly snatched it from the toaster and threw it on a plate.

Scowling, the detective made his way into the sitting room and plopped down on the couch, taking a quick bite of the plain toast as he went. "You know, I have a feeling you're going to cause a lot more problems than you are going to solve," he murmured down to his stomach as he tore off another piece of the bread.

Trying to ignore the compulsive urge to touch his middle, Sherlock quickly finished his toast and then placed the empty plate on the floor, not wanting to waste the energy to get up and put it in the sink.

With a small sigh, the detective slowly rolled onto his back, pulling his legs onto the couch.

Remembering that he'd left his laptop nearby, Sherlock stretched back and quickly grabbed the slender computer. "Let's see," he murmured absentmindedly, quickly starting it up and typing into the search box: step-by-step guide for pregnancy. Embarassed at his lack of knowledge on the subject, he quickly clicked on the first site and clicked on the section for weeks 7-10.

Eager for information, Sherlock scanned the information, barely noticing as one of his hands slid down to splay over his stomach.

"What?" he murmured out loud as he reached a section on women's breasts have a tendency to expand during this time of pregnancy. Quickly shoving the laptop away, Sherlock practically tore open the front of his robe and stared down at his chest with wide eyes.

"Thank God," he sighed in relief upon seeing that he was still perfectly flat, toned and normal. Taking a deep breath of relief, Sherlock pulled the computer back up and scrolled down. He paused, almost smiling as he read that the baby's hands can now bend at the wrists and was about the size of gum ball.

Somehow, knowing that something as simple as bending a wrist was considered an accomplishment only solidified in the detective's mind how fragile the little being inside of him was; how _much_ the tiny human relied entirely on him.

Sliding the computer onto the ground, Sherlock carefully pulled open his robe and stared down at the slight bulge of his stomach, which as he laid on his back was much less noticeable.

Watching as his stomach moved up and down with each steady breath, the detective felt a strange flutter of paternal love flash across his chest and down to his stomach. "Amazing," he whispered, shocked that such an incredibly tiny person—barely even that yet—could bring out such feelings in him. "How do you do that?" he asked, still staring down at his abdomen in awe. "You barely even exist... And yet I feel... How do you _do_ that?"

Eyes crinkling at the corners as a rare smile graced his lips, Sherlock laced his fingers across his stomach and leaned back against the couch, letting his head rest against the arm. Staring at the ceiling, the detective quickly pulled his robe over his abdomen, almost as if he was worried the baby would become cold, and then wrapped his arms protectively around his middle before closing his eyes, pressing his fingers protectively against his stomach.

* * *

John returned home from surgery sooner than usual. Quickly dropping his keys into his pocket, the doctor hurried up the stairs, calling, "Sherlock, have you seen Lestrade today? He's been..." John paused in the doorway, frozen by the sight of Sherlock curled up on the couch, arms wrapped protectively around his middle as his slender body pressed against the back of the lounge.

In the many years John had been Sherlock's flatmate, he had never once seen the detective willing take a nap. In fact, he couldn't even remember the last time Sherlock had slept at all!

Smiling at his friend, the doctor quickly turned, found a blanket and moved back towards the couch, taking a moment to pause and see if Sherlock would wake. When the detective merely continued to rest, body rising and falling with each gentle breath, John hurried forward and carefully draped the fabric of his friend's robed body.

Chuckling softly at how out of place Sherlock seemed, but smiling at how the pregnancy already seemed to be changing him, John quickly glanced at the detective's slender fingers, curled against his stomach and then turned, heading into the kitchen to make dinner, still smiling to himself.


	3. Chapter Three: A Sensation

Chapter Three: A Sensation

**_10 weeks_**

"We're going to need to tell people eventually, you know that, right?" John asked cautiously, gazing at his friend's pacing form.

"Hmm," Sherlock huffed, tightening his scarf around his neck as he continued to pace back and forth, waiting anxiously for a call from Lestrade. "Why?"

"Because they deserve to know, Sherlock. And besides, like it or not, there will come a time when you won't be able to hide it," John said thoughtfully, raising an eyebrow at his flat mate.

"Finally!" Sherlock exclaimed excitedly as he felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket. "We're on our way," he said into the phone before turning on his heel and quickly flying down the stairs, coat billowing behind him as he went.

"Of course." Rolling his eyes after the detective, John pushed himself out of his chair and hurried down the stairs.

* * *

Once John and Sherlock arrived at the crime scene, after a brief overview from Lestrade, the detective hurried through a series of passageways until he reached the victim, a young woman. Pausing in the doorway, Sherlock made a gesture behind him that signaled that John and Lestrade, who had been following close behind, were to pause and be silent.

Steel-grey eyes quickly scanning over the scene and assessing all of the details and deductions flooding his ever-active mind, Sherlock slowly stepped into the room, long coat swishing gracefully behind him. "How long?"

"Two days," Lestrade said quietly, watching the detective with careful eyes.

"Good. She wasn't murdered here."

"How—"

"The floor, Lestrade. Think." Giving a submissive wave of his hand, Sherlock hurried forward and knelt down in front of the body, pulling out his magnifying glass. Catching a whiff of an unusual scent, the detective bent down and paused just above the young woman's back, inhaling in an effort to locate the smell.

Suddenly, with a small shudder, Sherlock pulled away, covering his mouth with the back of his hand and quickly fled towards the door, uttering a quick, "Excuse me, please," to Lestrade as he left. This would be the fourth time the detective had gotten sick while at a crime scene.

Knowing his friend's morning sickness had become worse in the past few days, John stared sadly after Sherlock's fleeting rom, almost feeling sorry for the stubborn git.

"John."

The doctor was pulled out of his thinking by Lestrade's voice. John froze as he saw the look on the DI's face, and knew that he would no longer be able to keep Sherlock's pregnancy a secret; Lestrade clearly thought something was up.

"Tell me."

Sighing deeply, John glanced around, and, seeing all of the crime scene workers, gestured to an empty room and ushered the Inspector in, closing the door behind the two of them.

"All right," he sighed, placing his hands on his hips and glancing quickly at Lestrade. "Do you remember, several weeks back, the Moran case? Where we found Sherlock?"

"Of course," Lestrade answered quickly. "How could any of us forget it?"

"Right... Well, it appears Moran... He sexually assaulted Sherlock."

"Oh God," Lestrade sighed sadly, eyes softening as he put two and two together. "It's affected him a lot, then, hmm?"

"More than you think," John chuckled darkly.

"How do you mean?"

"Well... It would appear Sherlock... Is one of the few men in the world who carries the gene for... Male pregnancy. And, it would seem Moran..."

"No. What?" Lestrade practically gasped, hands freezing on his hips as he stared incredulously at the doctor. "Sherlock's _pregnant_?"

"Yes," John sighed sadly. "But please don't... He's incredibly self-concious enough as it is."

"Of course, but I mean... Are you _sure_, John?"

"I'm the one who saw the baby and figured it out; I'm sure."

"Wow... Do you think it's a good idea? I mean... Will the baby be all right, given his lifestyle?" Lestrade asked carefully, watching the door behind John, as if he was expecting Sherlock to burst through the doors at any moment.

"Should be. I mean, he's eating more, actually resting during the day. Though I suspect that's more nature taking over than it is him... And from the few times I've seen the baby, it looks healthy; no visible deformities or abnormalities that I could see."

"Okay. How far along is he?"

"Ten, eleven weeks."

Gaze falling to the ground, Lestrade merely sighed quietly, taking a moment to process this new information. After all, Sherlock was practically like a son to him. Before John had entered the detective's life, Lestrade was the one who helped keep Sherlock on track; he was the one who had gotten him off drugs and helped him stay clean. And he couldn't help but feeling sad, and almost guilty for what Sherlock had been going through these past few weeks.

"How has he been handling it?"

"Pretty well, actually. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he was becoming attached to the little thing."

"Hmm," Lestrade hummed softly, managing a small smile at the thought.

"Oh. I think he's coming back; I can hear Donovan yelling," John chuckled, opening the door and gesturing for the Inspector to head out.

"Hope he's all right," Lestrade sighed, in reference to the morning sickness.

"Yeah. It's gotten much worse in the past few days; most smells bring it on now. But it should end soon," he said, hurrying after Lestrade and into the room with the body. Just in time, too, as moments later Sherlock entered, hands linked behind his back.

"Apologies," he murmured, hurrying back towards the body. He paused, however, as Lestrade passed by.

Knowing Sherlock instantly knew, the Inspector simply gave his friend a small smile. Unable to hold the detective's analytical gaze, however, his eyes fell to the body, gesturing loosely towards the woman.

"Hmm," Sherlock murmured, quirking an eyebrow at Lestrade and shooting a quick glare to John before hurrying towards the body, and rambling off all sorts of conclusions, and, eventually, the murderer.

* * *

"Sorry," John muttered, embarrassed, upon entering the cab after his friend.

"It's fine. He needed to be told anyway," the detective replied cooly. "221 Baker Street."

"I suppose we should be telling Mrs. Hudson, then," the doctor tried carefully.

"Yes," Sherlock murmured, pulling out his phone.

John watched silently as the detective's deft fingers quickly glided across the keys, vaguely wondering what he was looking up.

"Would you like me to?" he asked as the cab pulled up outside the flat.

"If you could," Sherlock murmured in reply, quickly shoving his phone back into his pocket as he slid out of the cab.

"Right."

"Thank you, John."

The doctor gave his friend a warm smile as they walked through the front door. "I'll uhh... Just be a moment then." With a quick nod his head, John hurried to the right, heading down to Mrs. Hudson's, while Sherlock turned, making his way up to 221B.

Finding he was mildly hungry, the detective quickly threw together a sandwich and collapsed onto the couch as he finished eating, wondering how Mrs. Hudson would react.

Sherlock frowned slightly as he felt his eyes beginning to droop with tiredness, though he had just slept hours before. With a small huff of breath and an eye roll, Sherlock quickly slid out of his coat, letting it drop to the floor as he gave in and rolled over, closing his eyes as a wave of tiredness and unfortunately, nausea, washed over him.

"Why must you do that?" he sighed, gazing down at his middle with tired eyes. Despite himself, though, the detective's lips quirked up into a small smile as he snaked a hand around his stomach, closing his eyes and leaning into the back of the couch as he tried to ignore the nausea flooding his stomach.

Just as he was getting comfortable, ready to slip into a nap, Sherlock was jolted awake by a loud cry from downstairs. "Sherlock!"

Groaning as he moved, the detective slowly rolled off the couch and straightened, smoothing down the front of his suit just as Mrs. Hudson cleared the landing, quickly running into the flat.

"Oh, Sherlock!" she cried happily, rushing forward and pulling Sherlock's much-taller form into a tight hug.  
"Oh, I just knew something was up!" she chuckled, releasing the detective and staring up at him with watery eyes. "How are you feeling, dear?"

Sherlock, already tense from the rare physical affection, managed a small smile for his landlady. "I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson. Just a little... A little sick every now and then," he said quietly, glancing back towards the stairs as John hurried into the flat.

"Sorry," the doctor mouthed, giving his friend a small smile, which was returned by a grateful twitch of his flat mate's lips.

"Poor thing," Mrs. Hudson cooed, already fussing over Sherlock. "Have you been eating enough? You know that—"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson. Don't worry."

"Good. Oh, Sherlock... I'm happy for you. Really," she whispered, reaching up to gently pat Sherlock on the cheek.

"Thank you," the detective murmured in response, smiling under her warm, comforting touch.

"You're most certainly welcome, dear. Oh! John mentioned you're about eleven weeks along! Are you showing yet?" she asked excitedly, placing a tender hand over Sherlock's stomach.

At her words, the detective's alabaster cheeks flushed a dark red, and his eyes quickly flitted to John in the doorway, gaze falling to the ground as he saw the doctor smirking at him. Chuckling to himself, and knowing he was not wanted at the moment, John quickly slipped away into the kitchen and made sure the door was shut.

Sighing in relief as the doctor disappeared into the kitchen, though the blush was still dark on his cheeks, Sherlock turned back to Mrs. Hudson, finding her warm hand covering his stomach oddly comforting in a motherly sort of way. "Yes," he whispered, quickly glancing at the door to make sure John had not peeked out.

"Oh, dear... Are you excited at all?"

Embarrassed and overwhelmed at having to express so many emotions at once, Sherlock just gave the landlady a simple smile in response, patting her on the shoulder. "I'm just trying to get through this much," he managed.

"Of course. I remember," she chuckled, pulling her hands away and wrapping them around herself in a tight hug. "Sorry if I embarrassed you, dear. I'm excited, that's all..."

"That's all right, Mrs. Hudson. I understand. I'm just... Still adjusting... To it all, I suppose. I'm uhh... Not—ahem—I mean, I don't—"

"It's alright, dear. Trust me. Oh! I've got pasta cooking downstairs, so I need to head back down. But, Sherlock? If you need anything... _Ever_... Don't hesitate to ask, alright? There's absolutely nothing to feel embarrassed about."

"Yes," Sherlock murmured, giving his landlady a warm smile. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

With one last pat on the detective's shoulder and a sweet smile, Mrs. Hudson turned, and hurried out of the flat.

"Sorry," John chuckled lightly as he re-emerged from the kitchen. "You know, you don't need to get embarrassed about those sort of things around me. I'm here for you... To help," the doctor said earnestly.

"Yes... Ah, thank you, John."

"Of course. So... _Are_ you showing?" John asked, unable to help his smile.

"_Please_, John," Sherlock sighed dramatically, giving the doctor a royal eye roll.

"So that's a yes?"

"No!" the detective cried indignantly, collapsing onto the bed and wrapping his arms around his middle as he curled into the corner.

"Right," John laughed, crossing his legs as he sat in his chair, giving Sherlock a knowing smile.

"Fine. A little," Sherlock huffed, pressing closer to the back of the couch.

"Again, you don't need to be embarrassed, Sherlock. I'd be worried at this point if you weren't showing. Just think, in a few more weeks you'll be able to feel it."

"Feel it?" Sherlock asked, straining as he turned, trying to see John over his shoulder.

"Of course. It will be big enough in a little while that you'll actually be able to feel inside when it moves. On top of that, we'll soon be able to distinguish the sex. Have you thought about names if it's a boy or a girl?"

Suddenly, at John's words, Sherlock froze, body flooding with warmth as it occured to him that the tiny person inside of him would turn out to be a boy or a girl... A son or a daughter. Suddenly, with this small realization, a wave of love for the baby resting in his abdomen washed over him and his heart seemed to skip a beat in his chest as he realized—truly—for the first time that the baby growing in his stomach was his child... To love and to raise... To take care of. To protect.

"I'll be able to feel it soon?" Sherlock breathed.

"Yeah. And soon after, others will be able to as well. By week 21, though, it'll probably be moving so much you'll wish it would calm down a bit."

"That's... Amazing," Sherlock sighed, so immersed in his thoughts and realizations he didn't mind that John was watching.

"I know," John whispered, smiling fondly at his friend. "Human life is amazing. What's even more amazing is that you have one growing and living inside of you."

"Yes, I agree. Amazing... John, I don't want to know."

"Want to know what?" the doctor asked confusedly, brows drawing together as he gazed at his friend, noting how the detective's fingers were cradling his stomach.

"The sex. I would rather wait until it's born... I want it to be a... A surprise."

"Ahh," John sighed, giving his friend a warm smile. "I see. Well... Do you mind if I find out? I'm not sure I could wait."

Sherlock pondered for a moment, slender fingers absentmindedly stroking his stomach. "No, I don't mind. Just so long as you don't tell me."

"Deal."

* * *

_**13 weeks**_

"JOHN!"

The doctor was jolted awake from his nap by a strangled cry from his flat mate. Frowning as he sat up in his chair, John hurried into Sherlock's room to find the detective, looking utterly broken, staring at a floor-length mirror with his favorite purple button-up draped over his shoulders.

"Sherlock, what—? Oh," the doctor sighed, almost chuckling as he realized what the problem was.

"It won't fit," Sherlock all-but-sobbed, eyes quickly filling with tears as he tried once again to do the tight shirt around his middle. "It just won't!" With a small, saddened huff of breath, the detective collapsed onto the bed and buried his face in the pillows, curling into a pathetic ball as he started to cry, sobbing into the soft fabric.

"Oh, Sherlock," John sighed, smiling sadly at his friend's sad form. Unsure of how to comfort his clearly hormonal friend, the doctor moved towards the bed and placed a hesitant hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "It'll be alright. You'll just need to get some new clothes, that's all."

"Oh!" the detective sobbed into the pillows, body shaking as he reached up, running a frustrated hand through his hair. "But I don't _want_ new clothes!"

"Sherlock," John chuckled, unable to stop himself from laughing at his dramatic flat mate. "I promise, it'll be alright. Nobody will even notice."

"It's not just that!" Sherlock cried quickly sitting up in the bed and pulling away his shirt just enough to see the bottom of his stomach. "Look!"

Squinting, John bent down and stared at the pale expanse of skin the detective was pointing to. "I don't see—"

"It's a stretch mark!" Sherlock spat, jabbing distastefully at the "mark."

"Uhh... I don't see anything, Sherlock." A glare. "Okay, okay! But I'll tell you what. How about I go out tonight and get some cream that'll help prevent any further "marks," okay? Yes?" he asked gently, placing a hand on his friend's shoulder.

"Alright," Sherlock sniffled, giving a feeble nod of his head. "Thank you, John."

"It's okay, Sherlock... You're welcome. Remember, I'm here to help."

* * *

**_16 weeks_**

When John came home with several tubs of ice cream, per the request of Sherlock, he found the detective pacing vigorously back and forth around the flat, hands pressed to his stomach as he muttered to himself.

"Waiting for something?" the doctor chuckled, quickly tucking the sweets into the freezer.

"Internet says sixteen weeks," Sherlock mumbled absentmindedly, glaring down at his stomach as he turned on his heel, turning back to pace into the sitting room.

"Sixteen weeks for what? Feeling the baby? Sherlock," John chuckled, grabbing a quick drink before entering the sitting room, watching as his friend paced back and forth. "That's just a guide. It doesn't mean it's going to happen to you as soon as you've hit sixteen weeks. Chances are, since you've never been pregnant before, you'll feel the baby at closer to seventeen or eighteen weeks."

"That's too long!" Sherlock groaned, pushing his robe behind him as he paused his pacing, falling back onto the couch. "Fine," he huffed eventually. "Did you get the ice cream?"

"Yes. It's uhh... In the fridge," John almost laughed, gesturing with his head to the kitchen.

"Excellent." Lips twitching up into a half-smile, Sherlock quickly flew to the kitchen, and pulled the tub from the freezer, not even bothering to get a bowl, and grabbed a spoon before carrying the carton back to the sitting room, already tucking into the ice cream.

John watched, still not used to seeing his friend eat so willing, as the detective paced around the sitting room, taking bite after bite of the creamy sweet.

"Do please stop staring, John," Sherlock sighed dramatically, not even bother to look up as he shoveled another spoonful into his mouth. "It's not as if I can help it."

"I didn't say anything," the doctor chuckled, throwing his hands up in mock surrender.

"Do not forget: you are the one who is always telling me I need to eat more. Do stop being hypocritical."

"Sorry!" John laughed, watching with a small smile as Sherlock quickly finished most of the tub.

"Have you told Mycroft yet?"

"Oh please," Sherlock groaned, quickly discarding the almost-empty carton and pacing back and forth around the sitting room. "It's not as if he doesn't already know. Mycroft always seemed to know my secrets before I did. He already knows."

"Okay... Molly?"

"Already told her."

"What? When?"

"Last week at Bart's."

"Oh. Okay... Then I think that should be all our close friends. Do _you_ want to tell anyone else?"

"No," Sherlock answered almost immediately, wrapping his long arms around his middle and frowning as he plopped down on the couch.

"Okay... Nobody else..."

"Good."

* * *

**_18 weeks_**

"Insufferable," Sherlock muttered to himself as he tossed and turned in his bed, unable to find a comfortable position. He had already woken up two times, having moved onto his back and stayed there for too long. "Sleeping should not be this difficult! Especially since _you're_ the one who constitutes I get more," he sighed, shoving a pillow between his knees as he rolled onto his side.

Finding the position to be more comfortable than any of the previous, Sherlock sighed gratefully and closed his eyes, that recently-familiar feeling of exhaustion creeping through his veins. "Sorry," he murmured, letting a hand slide down his stomach and rest comfortably over the bump on his middle.

Then, almost as if in response to his apology, there came a tiny fluttering, almost like a popping from underneath his skin.

Eyes flying open at the sensation, Sherlock froze, waiting silently for more of the popping to see if it was more than just his imagination...

And then, just a few moments later, there came more movements, a sudden flurry of little pops and flutters under his skin.

Gasping slightly at the sensation, the detective quickly sat up in bed and pulled his shirt off, cradling the gentle swell of his bare stomach in his hands. "You moved!" he whispered in amazement, gasping once again as another flurry of movement sent a flood of warmth coursing through his entire body, which eventually rested comfortably in his chest.

"You... You're alive," Sherlock breathed staring with wide eyes at the pale expanse of skin. "You're really there. Growing. You... You moved," he sighed, a wide grin gracing his cupid's bow lips. "You're... You're... I don't know if it's even possible... But I do believe I love you," Sherlock whispered, chest heaving with elated breaths as he stared down at his middle, smiling as he felt a few more flutters in his abdomen. "You're simply _amazing_."

A swell of love warming his chest, Sherlock leaned back against the headboard, unable to help himself from smiling as the reality of the situation weighed down on him... He was having a baby. Proof of which was the fluttering of the child's movement in his middle. "I'm here," he whispered, vaguely remembering that a child in the womb can feel it's parent's emotions, and hear when a mother's heartbeat would speed up; the baby could feel the anxiety. "I'm here."

Smiling, and hoping to provide some sort of calm for his child, Sherlock gently stroked his fingertips over the pale skin of his stomach and slowly rolled onto his slide, slotting the pillow back between his knees. "I'm right here," he murmured, deep, baritone voice resonating through the quiet room.

The detective couldn't help but smile as the flurry of movement died down, glad that he had provided some sort of calm for his child. "Shh... I'm just here, love."

Almost unable to believe that he'd said that, and smiling fondly at the thought, Sherlock curled around his stomach, quickly falling into a deep sleep.


	4. Chapter Four: Just A Feeling

**Hey all! So, I've been studying for finals like crazy (which are taking place tomorrow and Thursday), and in an effort to take my mind off the craziness, I wrote up a cute little fluffy chapter. Hope you like it! Have a great week guys! Oh! Also, thanks to everyone who has followed, favorited, and/or reviewed! They're so encouraging and make writing this fic so much more enjoyable and easy! So thank you all very much! =)**

Chapter Four: Just A Feeling

**19 weeks**

"John, will you please _hurry up_?"

"Agh, I'm trying, I'm trying," the doctor cried, quickly fumbling with the keys before sliding one into place and clicking open one of the hospital doors.

"_Finally_!" Sherlock groaned, quickly pushing past his friend and hurrying into the room, coat billowing gracefully behind.

"Impatient much?" John chuckled, quickly clicking on the light switch.

"Only when it's in the middle of the night, and I am thoroughly exhausted and not in the best of moods," the detective hissed between his teeth, quickly yanking off his coat and tossing it onto one of the mint-green hospital chairs.

Suppressing a smile, John merely gave a quick nod of his head and hurried over to the cabinet, rummaging around for an ultrasound machine. Though he would never admit it, the doctor was secretly pleased that Sherlock would only allow _him_ to do the ultrasounds and check-ups (in the middle of the night) so no one else would see or know. It meant quite a bit that the detective trusted him that much.

"Just... Hop up?" Sherlock asked awkwardly, gesturing to the cot.

"Hmm? Oh. Yeah. I will need you to take your shirt off, though."

"Hmm," Sherlock mumbled unhappily, turning his back to the doctor. With a small frown, the detective quickly yanked off his t-shirt (one of the few left that still fit) and then immediately crossed his arms over his belly, suddenly feeling incredibly embarrassed. His steadily growing middle, which had once been flat and sculpted, was now bulging with the growth of his child.

"Right, then. Up you go," John said cheerfully, pulling his friend from his thoughts.

"What? Oh. Yes."

Cheeks flushing pink with embarrassment, and keeping his arms wrapped so they were still concealing his bump, Sherlock turned and hopped onto the cot (as best he could), still not removing his hands.

"Okay. Here we go," John sighed gently, pulling a chair over and sitting down as he pulled out the gel. "Ready?" he asked, gesturing in a way that suggested Sherlock was to remove his arms.

"Oh. Well—I—can't you just—"

"Sherlock?" John asked softly, furrowing his brows at his flat mate. "Are you really embarrassed?"

The light pink flush turned into a dark red, and Sherlock pressed his lips into a tight line as he stared at the floor, arms curling even tighter around his middle.

"Sherlock," John murmured gently, placing a comforting hand on the detective's arm. "Look at me," he urged, slowly pulling one of Sherlock's arms away from his stomach.

Worrying his lip with his teeth, Sherlock reluctantly turned, forcing himself to meet the doctor's eyes.

"Sherlock, you have absolutely nothing to feel silly about, do you hear me?" John murmured gently, giving the detective a pat on the arm. "What you're doing, what's happening to you, it's completely normal and natural. You have nothing to be embarrassed about. Your stomach is growing and that's supposed to happen, I promise. It's showing that your baby is growing and doing well. Okay? Don't feel silly about it, all right?" John murmured softly, giving his flat mate a reassuring smile and a quick pat on the hand.

Gazing earnestly up at his friend, Sherlock managed a small smile. "Thank you, John," he whispered, sliding his hand from his stomach to expose the small baby bump. "Sorry."

"That's all right. Ready?" John murmured, pulling out the gel from its slot.

"Yes."

"Good." Gazing at the ultrasound screen, the doctor slowly squirted some of the gel onto Sherlock's stomach, which received a quick intake of breath, and then massaged the liquid-substance into the detective's skin before swiping the wand across the pale flesh. "Ah. There we are," he whispered, smiling at the screen as the image of the baby showed up.

Eager to see, Sherlock turned and stared at the screen, unable to help himself as the corners of his lips quirked up into a small smile. "Beautiful," he whispered, so quietly he was sure John hadn't even heard.

Still smiling, the doctor turned his attention to Sherlock, eyes softening as he saw the detective's smile, saw the utter amazement and joy dancing in his friend's usually cold and calculating eyes. "Yeah," he murmured, moving the wand to hear the baby's heartbeat.

Sherlock gasped quietly at the sound and couldn't help but grin lovingly at the image on the screen.

"Well," John sighed quietly, turning his attention back to the image. "Let's see… There's the little one's legs, you see?"

"Yes."

"And… There's its arms, its body. Looks like both of you are doing well."

"Look at its fingers," Sherlock murmured, making a gesture towards the screen "They're so…"

"Yes. I know. They're very tiny. And then there's the head."

Sherlock nearly gasped aloud as he saw his child's face. In the beginning, the baby had been moving, yet not in any distinguishable way. But now his baby's lips were moving back in forth in a movement that sent a paternal flutter through the detective's stomach and chest. "What… What's it doing?"

"It's practicing sucking," John chuckled fondly, smiling at the amazement in his friend's eyes.

Sighing in sheer wonder, Sherlock's striking eyes traveled from his baby's lips and looked at the entire image on the screen, his child's face. "Oh," he breathed, having never truly seen his baby's features. "Look at her… She's beautiful," he murmured aloud, mouthing hanging open slightly as he drank in the image of his child.

"She?" John chuckled, raising his eyebrows at his friend.

"What? Oh. Yes."

"But you don't even know what the gender is yet."

"No, but… I don't know, it's just a feeling," the detective murmured, keeping his eyes glued to the screen.

"Please," John scoffed. "It's not something you can just…" The doctor trailed away as he felt his heart all but melt at the fond, loving look in his flat mate's eyes. "All right, all right. Well… Let me just check." He squinted slightly at the screen and leaned forward. "Ah," he sighed softly, before a wide grin spread across his face. "You're sure you don't want to know?" he asked slyly, giving Sherlock a sideways glance. "Just to either confirm or disprove?"

"What?" the detective murmured absently, still staring in amazement at the ultrasound screen.

"The sex, Sherlock," John chuckled. "I can tell whether it's a boy or girl. You're sure you don't want to know which it is?"

"You _can_?" Sherlock gasped, tearing his eyes away from the screen to stare wide-eyed at the doctor.

"Of course. Would you like to know whether you're having a son or a daughter?" John asked gently, smiling fondly at the screen.

Turning his attention back to the image of his child, Sherlock took a deep breath, smiling at the baby. "No," he whispered, fighting the strong urge to cradle his stomach. "I don't want to know… Do you know?"

Smiling with soft eyes at his friend, John whispered a quiet, "Yeah. I know."

"Wait. Can I… Can I still call it a her?" Sherlock asked, staring nervous and wide-eyed at his flat mate.

"Of course," John chuckled gently, amazed at how incredibly innocent the detective looked and sounded. "You can call it whatever you'd like."

Sherlock sighed quietly to himself, feeling a bittersweet longing in the pit of his stomach to know the true sex of his baby. Swallowing the feeling, the detective gave a small nod of his head, scanning his eyes over the image, drinking in the amazingly beautiful sight, as he knew it was about to disappear. "I still think it's a girl."

"Uh-huh," John chuckled skeptically. "Ready?"

"Mmm."

"Alright," John whispered, slowly pulling the wand away and feeling a strange sadness as he saw the glow and joy dim in Sherlock's eyes.

Though the image was gone, the detective continued to stare at the blank screen, barely noticing as John started to wipe and clean the gel from his middle.

"Sherlock?" the doctor asked once he was finished. "You ready to go home?"

"What? Oh… Oh. Yes. I'm just… Yes."

"Good."

Taking a deep breath and placing a hand on his bare middle, Sherlock slowly slid off the cot and made his way towards his shirt and coat. Slipping the fabrics on, the detective tucked the long folds of the coat around himself and shoved his hands in the pockets, waiting patiently for John, lulled into a state of contentment by what he'd just witnessed on the ultrasound screen.

"Right, then. I think that's all. Ready?"

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed, the corner of his lip twitching up into a tiny half smile as he allowed himself to press the palm of his hands to his stomach through the fabric of the pockets.

"Okay, then. Let's go!" John sighed cheerfully, tugging on his own coat.

"Yes. Oh... Yes," he added more firmly, trying to sound like his normal self.

The two hurried out into the brisk night air, and John hurriedly hailed a cab as he saw Sherlock tuck his coat even further around his middle.

Snow had just started to fall and the white, airy flakes were beginning to nestle themselves in the detective's perfectly groomed curls. John couldn't help but smile as he glanced over at his friend while the cab rolled up. Sherlock looked simply radiant; his usually sculpted face with its hard edges and sharp planes, was now soft with the hints of a smile playing over the detective's lips. His posture was completely relaxed, arms hanging loosely from his pockets, where usually every stance and position was precise, calculated, sharp.

Chuckling silently to himself, John opened the door and allowed Sherlock to slide in, quickly following suit.

"Hmm," the detective hummed tiredly to himself, quickly ruffling his raven hair to rid the snowflakes from his curls. He turned to John, and paused, letting his hand fall to his lap as he found the doctor staring at him. "What?" he asked accusingly.

"Hmm? What? Oh! Nothing, I was just uh... Sorry, nothing," John apologized quickly, turning back to the window as his cheeks flushed a light pink at having been caught staring at his friend.

"No, it's... Fine," Sherlock chuckled, voice a low rumble as he raised an eyebrow at his flat mate. "What was it?"

"Nothing, I was just... Uhh..."

"_What_?" Sherlock asked again, genuinely curious.

"I was just... You looked different, that's all. Happier... Almost radiant, if you'll please excuse the cliché."

"What cliché?" the detective asked confusedly, brows furrowing together.

"You know... Pregnant women are always described as looking radiant."

"Oh. Right," Sherlock mumbled, though it was clear he did not still quite understand.

"Nevermind," John chuckled. "You just looked different, that's all. It was a nice change."

"Ah. I see..."

Still smiling at his friend, John turned his attention to the window, and Sherlock quickly followed suit, gazing out at the freshly fallen snow. The detective barely noticed as he gave into the urge to touch his stomach, and gently slipped a few fingers inside his coat, allowing them to rest ever so slightly just above the tiny bump. Almost instantly, there was a small flutter of movement and Sherlock couldn't help but gasp out loud at the sensation, still unused to the feeling of someone, a baby, shifting around in his middle.

"You okay?" John asked worriedly, having heard the gasp.

"What? Oh. Yes, yes… I'm... It... She moved," Sherlock murmured, staring at his flat mate with wonder in his steel-grey eyes, lips parted slightly with a small smile.

"You did?" John cried excitedly, eyes falling to his friend's hidden stomach. "Is this the first time?"

"No, a few days ago I first felt it. But it hadn't moved again up until now."

"Ah," the doctor sighed in amazement. "That's incredible... What does it feel like?"

"Sort of like... A fluttering, gentle pops. I keep wondering if I've actually felt it, the movement is so quick and fleeting."

"Hmm. That's amazing, though. But it's also good news; right on track. Mean's the baby is doing well."

"Yes," Sherlock murmured just as the cab pulled up outside of 221B. The two hurried through the brisk night air and into the silent flat.

Sighing softly to himself, Sherlock quickly tugged off his coat and hung it on the back of the door. "I'm going to bed," he declared tiredly, suddenly remembering how exhausted he was now that he was wrapped in the darkness of the homely flat. "I must admit," the detective huffed, hurrying into the kitchen and grabbing a slice of bread. "I will not miss needing _this_," he stated, gesturing to the bedroom.

"Enjoy it," John chuckled, leaning against the doorway as he watched his flat mate butter the bread and then eat it. "Once the baby's here, you won't be getting much sleep at all."

"Mmm. Yes. Well. Goodnight." Not even bothering to wait for a response, the detective turned on his heel and hurried into his bedroom, closing the door behind him.

Crossing his arms over his chest, John smiled smugly after his friend, his words eliciting a small chuckle: _I will not be missing _this... The doctor turned, heading up to his own room and smiled at the thought that Sherlock had all but admitted that he would be missing some things about the pregnancy...

Smiling at the thought, John closed his door and crawled into bed, too tired to bother taking his clothes off.

Downstairs, Sherlock was doing just that. Murmuring to himself, the detective slowly pulled off his shirt and trousers, finding that it was becoming more and more difficult to move quickly with the ever-growing bump now forming around his middle. Tossing the fabric away, Sherlock all-but-fell into the bed, quickly pulling the covers over his almost-naked body.

"You demand a lot, I hope you know that," he murmured affectionately, running his fingertips over the gentle swell of his stomach. The detective's breath caught in his throat as he was met with a flurry of flutters beneath his skin. "Beautiful." Smiling to himself, Sherlock rolled onto his back, knowing he would regret it soon, and reached down to pull out his laptop. Propping the computer up on his knees as that seemed to be more comfortable, the detective quickly pulled up one of the internet pages, the one that was now constantly on a pregnancy site. Sherlock clicked the next tab until the screen shifted forward to nineteen weeks and instantly started scanning information, eager to discover what was happening inside him.

The detective couldn't help but smile and absently cover his stomach with his slender fingers as he read that the baby was now about eight inches long. "You're so tiny," he murmured in amazement, subconsciously curling his fingers over the skin on his middle. Skipping over the section about things the mother would be experiencing, Sherlock's eyes quickly fell to an image at the bottom of the screen where he read that some believe the baby is able to hear a distorted version of their parent's voice. "You can hear me… You can hear me?" he spoke aloud, shoving the laptop away and gazing down at his bare stomach. "Oh uhh… Hello. I'm Sherlock. I'm your uhh… Father, I suppose. Hello. I don't… I'm afraid I don't really know what I'm doing. I do apologize for that… But, I think we'll be all right. I suppose soon you'll be meeting John. And Mrs. Hudson. They live with us. And then Lestrade… And Donovan and Anderson." A scoff. "I apologize in advance. Just don't listen to them when they speak, hmm?" the detective murmured. Yawning and the huffing slightly at how tired he felt, Sherlock closed his laptop and placed it on the ground.

With a sharp intake of breath at a sudden pain that coursed down his sides, Sherlock rolled onto his side, curling protectively around his middle. The pain was quickly replaced with a warmth, however as the soft fluttering of his child's movement in his middle made him smile. "So you really can hear me," he sighed in amazement, deep baritone voice rumbling through the room as he spoke. "I hope you like it," he chuckled, not even noticing when he closed his eyes as his arms curled around his middle. "You're going to be stuck hearing it for a while."

Then, almost as if in response to its father, there was another flutter of gentle kicks and movements. Gasping quietly again at the sensation, Sherlock's eyes fluttered open as he tried to catch his newly-stolen breath. "Breathtaking," he whispered, smiling down at his concealed middle. "I'll assume that was a yes," the detective chuckled, squirming for a moment as he tried to find a comfortable position. "Goodnight," Sherlock whispered, running a thumb over his skin as he settled into the pillows, taking the opportunity to actually try and get a good night's sleep, having found a comfortable position. "Sleep well."

Quickly slipping away and giving into his own tiredness, Sherlock took a deep breath, finding a strange calm had washed over him as he continued to feel the tender flutters and pops underneath his skin...


	5. Chapter Five: Movement

**Hey, guys! Sorry for the wait, but I hope you all enjoy this chapter. I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas, and for those who had/are on break, it has been lovely, as well! Thanks all! (Oh! By the way, I apologize for any and all mistakes that will probably be found in this chapter. Please excuse! I will fix as ****soon as possible. Thanks, guys!)**

Chapter Five: Movement

**20 weeks**

"But, John!" Sherlock cried dramatically, stomping after the doctor. "Please, just one! I can't think!"

"No. No nicotine patches; they could harm the baby!" John countered, quickly throwing the box in the garbage bin. "No more. You've got take care of yourself."

"I _have_ been—"

"Yes, you've been eating and resting, but it takes more than that! You also have to keep taking care of your body until—until its born," the doctor stumbled, having almost revealed the baby's gender.

Glaring at his flat mate, Sherlock straightened to his full height and crossed his arms across his chest. "Fine," he huffed eventually, hurrying into the sitting room and throwing himself (though not with his usual fervor) onto the couch, clothed only in his robe and a pair of his suit trousers.

"Git," John mumbled, following after and leaning against the doorframe. "Right, well I need to head out for a bit, all right? Be back in a few."

"Wait!" Sherlock called, quickly turning on the couch to glance at his flat mate.

"Yeah?"

"Peanut butter. Get peanut butter," the detective mumbled, suddenly embarrassed by the unusual craving. "And… Ranch dressing… Please."

"Sherlock. That's all right. I understand, it's not your fault. Of course I'll get some. Peanut butter and ranch dressing. Got it. Are you going to… Eat them together?" the doctor asked, unable to help his distaste at the thought.

"No," Sherlock scoffed, giving John a look that clearly said: _how could you possibly _suggest_ something so disgusting_?

"All right, all right," the doctor chuckled, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Ranch and peanut butter. Got it. Anything else?"

"No, that's all. Thank you, John."

"Of course," the doctor murmured, giving his friend a supportive smile before turning and hurrying out the flat.

Sighing to himself, Sherlock quickly wrapped his robe around his middle and curled up into a ball in the corner of the couch, his entire lean body curling around his stomach. "Peanut butter?" he muttered aloud, speaking into the cushions. "I don't even _like_ peanut butter." A huff. "Insufferable." Having nothing better to do, Sherlock shoved himself into a sitting position and slid off the couch, chuckling aloud at the flurry of kicks, which had become much stronger, beneath his skin. "I know, I know. Sorry."

Groaning slightly at the effort, Sherlock squatted down behind his chair and pulled out his violin. "Hey, just give me a moment," the detective chuckled down to his middle upon receiving a sharp swipe under his ribs. Settling comfortable into the cushions of the couch, Sherlock situated his violin against his stomach, making accommodations for the protruding bump.

Worrying his bottom lip slightly with his teeth, Sherlock carefully situated the instrument and ran his fingers gracefully over the strings. "Hope you like music," he murmured affectionately, plucking out a few gentle notes. Almost instantly, as if in response to the music, there was a flurry of gentle flutters and kick.

"Oh," Sherlock gasped aloud, placing a few fingers to his middle before grinning fondly at the exposed skin. "You like music? Good. As do I. We'll get along quite nicely, I do believe." Smiling to himself, the detective returned his graceful fingers to the equally graceful instrument and began to slide and pluck them across the strings, playing out a gentle, airy melody.

Smiling and taking the gentle kicks to his middle as encouragement, Sherlock started to hum along with the melody he had composed, deep baritone voice rumbling about and filling the room. "Hmm," he hummed happily to himself as he finished the melody. "Lovely..." A chuckle. "Glad to see you agree." With a deep sigh, the detective placed the violin across his lap and leaned back against the couch, letting his head rest against the wall. "Ah. Thank you, love," he sighed as the flutters died down, allowing him a quick moment to rest, as it was becoming increasingly more difficult to sleep at night with the series of kicks seeming to grow in number at night.

* * *

John returned home with a few bags of shopping and quick placed them in the kitchen before returning into the sitting room, jar of peanut butter and a spoon in hand. The doctor paused in the doorway upon seeing his friend, violin still resting neatly on his lap, completely passed out on the couch. "Poor git," he chuckled to himself, placing the jar and soon on the arm of his chair and silently moving over. John had guessed that Sherlock hadn't been sleeping very well at night, due to the activity of the baby; lately he'd been hearing the detective's light footfalls padding around downstairs at ungodly hours of the night, and he almost felt sorry for his friend. Here he was, actually trying to sleep, and the little being who was necessitating the need in the first place, would not allow it at natural times of the day.

Chuckling fondly to himself at at the thought, John carefully pulled the violin from Sherlock's lap and fingers, knowing that if it fell and broke, in his emotional state, the detective might literally have a panic attack. "There we are…"

Upon feeling the loss of space, however, Sherlock awoke with a soft intake of breath, his eyes fluttering open and then shut again as he squirmed on the couch, absentmindedly brushing a few fingers across his stomach, as if to make sure the baby was still there. "Hmm. John?" he mumbled groggily, rubbing a few fingers into his temple as he straightened and pulled his robe even further around his body.

"Yeah, it's me," the doctor chuckled, propping the violin up against the leg of his flat mate's chair. "I got your peanut butter and ranch."

"Oh. Uhm, thank you, John," Sherlock mumbled, shoving himself into a standing position before padding over to John's chair and snatching the tub of peanut butter and the spoon.

"Oh, by the way, Lestrade called. He said he's got a case that he wants you to—"

"_What_?" Sherlock asked, spinning on his heel to at his flat mate.

"Hey, hey, only if you're feeling up for it," John warned, raising an eyebrow at the detective.

"Not feeling _up to it_?" Sherlock scoffed, rushing into the kitchen and ditching the jar. "I haven't had a case in _weeks_, John!"

"Three days," the doctor muttered under his breath, withholding an eye roll.

"And it's about bloody time he called! Really, John, you must tell him that I'm not a china doll and I'm not going to break."

"You could always tell him yourself."

"Unlikely."

"Figured."

Humming in excitement to himself, Sherlock hurried into his room and quickly disrobed, much to the embarrassment of John, as he was not wearing much underneath, and then managed to get dressed in record time before quickly returning to the kitchen, still buttoning his suit. "Does it look all right?" he huffed, smoothing down the front of the fabric.

"Yes! You can't even tell," John scoffed, gesturing to his flat mate's still incredibly flat middle… Well, considering.

"Are you sure?" Sherlock asked worriedly. Toying with the hem of his suit jacket, the detective started to worry his bottom lip with his teeth.

"I'm sure. You look completely normal. Really," he added, hoping it would take away some of his friend's self consciousness.

"Mmm. Good. Yes, fine. Thank you. Right, then. Let's go!" Grinning excitedly to himself, Sherlock turned and quickly grabbed his coat, effortlessly slipping into the familiar fabric. "Come along, John!" he called, hurrying down the stairs.

"On my way," the doctor chuckled, smiling after his friend.

* * *

"Release the father from your custody; it wasn't him," Sherlock stated with a submissive wave of his hand as he walked over to the body resting on the ground.

"Wait, but... But he confessed," Lestrade tried to argue, though he was cut off with the detective's hand.

"He's protecting either the sister or mother," Sherlock murmured absentmindedly as he made to crouch down by the corpse.

John couldn't help but smile as he noticed the way his flat mate was kneeling, rather than balancing on the balls of his feet, as he usually did. In fact, the doctor had noticed that recently, most of Sherlock's movement had changed to, in one way or another, protect or shield his slowly-growing middle.

"John?"

"Hmm? What, yes?" the doctor stumbled, pulled from his thoughts.

"Do you see any hesitation marks?"

"Oh, um..." Bottom lip protruding slightly as he thought, John crouched down, taking the place where Sherlock had been, and examined the slashes on the body. "No, no hesitation marks, but it does look like—"

"Irrelevant. Either way, if the father had killed her, there would be hesitation marks, which, as John just clearly explained, there are none of. There is evidence, however, that there was some sort of rivalry between either the mother or sister. Ah! No, don't ask me how I know, I was just getting ready to explain it. Look at her nails. She's been chewing them. Only a close family disruption would illicit a nervous tick such as nail-biting. However, the only family members this poor girl has are her father, which we've just ruled out, so that leaves the mother or the sister. My guess is the latter, due to the response of the father. He would only become that protective of his own kin, as he feels she is his responsibility. There. Go make the proper arrests, Inspector."

"Oh. Uhh... Right, yes. I'm... I'm on it," Lestrade mumbled, giving a light shake of his head. John merely chuckled at the Inspector, shaking his head in a similar fashion at Sherlock's rapid explanation.

"Well, if that's all, then I think we'll be off. Come along, John. I have a jar of peanut butter waiting at home.

"Ah. I see," John chuckled, sharing a quick glance with Lestrade. "Cravings," he mouthed upon seeing the utterly lost look on the Inspector's face.

"Ah, I see. Poor sod. Tell Sherlock I said thanks," Lestrade chuckled, nodding towards the doorway Sherlock had just stomped out of.

"Will do. Bye." John hurried out of the building to find Sherlock had already called a cab and was waiting impatiently with the door open.

"Come along, John."

"Sorry, sorry," the doctor mumbled, quickly sliding in. "How are you feeling?" he asked once the cab had rolled to life.

"What?" Sherlock asked, giving his flat mate a look of utter confusion. "Fine?" he asked, rather than answered.

"Okay. I was just… Checking, that's all. Nice job with the case."

"Oh, please," the detective scoffed, giving a submissive wave of his hand. Not even realizing he was doing it, Sherlock folded his long fingers against his stomach and started to rub his thumbs up and down over the fabric protecting his middle. Not even skipping a beat, or noticing the fond smile on his flat mate's face, Sherlock quickly continued. "We agreed long ago that I would not be leaving the flat for anything less than a seven, and _that_," he spat distastefully, "was a three. At best… Oh, I know, I know," Sherlock murmured, though now he was talking to stomach, and the very persistent kicks he was receiving there.

"Kicking?" John chuckled softly, gazing at the way his friend was now cradling the small bump of his concealed stomach.

"Mmm," the detective hummed quietly, though the tiny smile in the corner of his lips was undeniable.

"I see… How's it feel?" John asked, genuinely curious.

"Incredibly unusual," Sherlock whispered, closing his fingers together again as the movement died down. "Imagine someone, an incredibly tiny human being growing inside of you—which is unusual enough on its own—kicking at your middle from the inside. It's incredible… And beautiful."

"Beautiful?"

"What?" Sherlock asked distractedly, blinking as he turned his attention to John and gave a few shakes of his head.

"You said beautiful."

"Did I?"

"Uh-huh."

"Oh. I suppose… I don't know. It's…" Stumbling over his words, Sherlock glanced quickly towards the cab driver and John noticed how the detective's cheeks were flushed a subtle pink.

"It's all right," the doctor chuckled, giving his friend a playful and reassuring swat on the arm. "You don't have to tell me. I understand. Here. I'll pay," he added, as the cab pulled up outside of Baker Street.

"Yes." Gathering himself, Sherlock gracefully slipped from the cab and hurried into 221B, coat billowing just as gracefully behind him.

"Thanks," John told the cabbie, before quickly following suit and making his way into the flat to find his friend had already shed himself of his belstaff and was tucking into the jar of peanut butter, dipping the spoon in.

"See you found the peanut butter," the doctor muttered smugly, quickly plopping down in his chair and snatching his computer.

"Piss off," Sherlock mumbled, lying back on the couch as he started eating at another spoonful.

"Sorry, sorry," John chuckled, clacking away at the keys as he started a new blog.

"No you're not."

"Nope! I'm not. It's payback, you know."

"What is?"

"Me making fun of your "condition" side effects." A scoff. "Really! Payback for all the times you've commented on my "lack of intellectual prowess" and my "obvious" stupidity. You get to make fun of me for not being as smart and quick as you… So, I get to make fun of your weird pregnancy cravings."

"… Logical," Sherlock muttered eventually, twiddling the spoon between his fingers as he drummed a few fingers atop his middle. "Writing up the case?"

"Mmm. And the one from earlier this week."

"Ugh, please. They were incredibly boring, what on earth is there to—"

"What, Sherlock? Sherlock?" Heaving a sigh and an eyeroll, the doctor looked up from his writing to see his flat mate, completely frozen on the couch, peanut butter completely forgotten, and his violinist's fingers hovering just over the gentle swell of his stomach. "Sherlock?" he asked, now genuinely concerned. "What's wrong, what's—"

"Get over here," Sherlock whispered breathlessly, lips parted slightly as he stared intently at his stomach, fingers still hovering.

"What, what is it?" Not expecting an answer, though, John quickly exited his chair and hurried over to the couch, squatting by his friends frozen form. "I don't understand, Sherlock. What is it?"

"Give me your hand," Sherlock gave in reply, quickly grabbing his flat mate's fingers and clutching them between his own. Working quickly with his free hand, the detective sat up and untucked his shirt, shoving the fabric up to expose his belly. "Feel," he breathed. And without further explanation, Sherlock pressed John's fingers to his middle, and flattened his palm over the back of his friend's hand before turning his attention to the doctor.

Thoroughly confused and only a little concerned, John was about to speak when he felt it... When he felt what was causing the look of pure wonder and excitement in Sherlock's eyes. A little thump against his palm… Coming from inside his friends' stomach… Coming from the baby he was carrying.

"Was that…?"

"Yes!" Sherlock gasped, a wide grin spreading across his face as removed his hand from John's to press it to his middle. "That was her, she… She moved. And you felt it," he breathed, struggling to catch his breath as another series of kicks pressed against his middle, inside and out. "She…"

"Yeah," John murmured, unable to suppress his own smile at the gentle thumps against his skin. "That's incredible."

"Yes. And beautiful… I can explain it, you know."

"Hmm? Oh. Explain what?"

"Why I said beautiful."

"Oh… Oh, right," John murmured absently, slowly pulling his hand from the taut skin of his flat mate's middle.

Smiling fondly to himself, Sherlock allowed the fabric of his shirt to drop down over his middle, though he kept his fingers firmly inside, not even realizing he was drawing patterns over the skin of his stomach. "It's… There are these moments," he began slowly, gazing at a point out the window. "Where there's no movement, there's no proof that there's anything happening, let alone growing, inside of you… Well, besides my stomach, that is. Anyway, it's… Unnerving. And then suddenly, she moves. And it's… It's proof that she's in there… Moving. Alive. Safe. And it's beautiful because it is absolutely terrifying… To know that there's a tiny, defenseless human being growing inside of you. It's terrifying to know that the baby—your baby—depends completely and entirely upon you. It's my job to protect and care for her. So, I just… I suppose that when she moves, and I know that she's all right… It's beautiful. And relieving. I don't—it's strange and—a bit—umm," the detective mumbled, blushing at his own words. "I don't know."

"That's great, Sherlock," John murmured, smiling at his friend's soppy and (for a change) emotional explanation. "It's all fine."

"Yes, good. Ahem."

"It _is_ beautiful, isn't it?" the doctor added, hoping to ease some of his friend's obvious embarrassment. "Thank you. For sharing that with me… It's incredible."

"Oh. Well… You're welcome. I suppose it's all of these bloody, stupid hormones. Turned me soft," Sherlock mumbled, quickly lying back on the couch and linking his fingers over his middle.

"Yeah… That's what it is," John whispered, chuckling to himself as he noticed that his friend's eyes were fluttering closed.

"Mmm. Perhaps," the detective murmured, rolling onto his side and wrapping an arm around his middle as he allowed his eyes to slide shut, having gotten no sleep the previous night. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock reveled in a series of gentle flutters underneath his skin, too soft to feel against the fingertips he had placed to his stomach.

Chuckling fondly at his now-slumbering friend, John pulled his laptop back to his lap and continued to update his blog, smiling at the incredibly intimate moment he'd just shared with Sherlock. He was discovering that he rather liked soft Sherlock. He nearly jumped at said person's voice, muffled by the cushions of the couch.

"Stop it. I can feel you smiling."

"Right," John grinned. "Sorry."


	6. Chapter Six: Keeping Track

**Hey guys! So this is a bit of a shorter chapter. I was going to add more to it, but unfortunately I'm going to be very busy here in the next few days, so I thought I would update sooner, rather than later, and just have a shorter, more fluffy chapter. =) Anyway, thanks to all who are following, reading, have favorited and reviewed! I really appreciate the support! Happy New Year, by the way (though, a little late)! Thanks, all! Hope you enjoy!**

Chapter Six: Keeping Track

**23 weeks**

"Would you _please_ calm down?" Sherlock sighed, exasperated, as he squirmed on the bed, tangling a fist in his raven curls. "I understand that you're growing and excited, but must you move so much while I'm trying to sleep?" In response, the detective was met with a series of hard kicks to his middle. In spite of his frustration, Sherlock couldn't help but smile at the reassuring movement. "Calm down, love. Please?" he whispered pulling up his shirt to splay his fingers over the taut skin of his middle. Impossibly, though it was not a new sensation, Sherlock's breath still escaped him as he felt a gentle thumping against his hands, the pure feeling of it taking his breath away. "I do believe I love you, did you know that?" the detective murmured, gripping the headboard behind him as he released his stomach to sit up and slide off the bed. "I mean, I realize it may be irrational, seeing as we've not met yet. But… I don't know, I can't quite explain it," he whispered to his stomach, staring intently at the skin, as if wishing that if he stared long enough, he would be able to somehow see the baby. "I suppose… I don't know, really. I'm just quite fond of you, that's all. Maybe it's because you're essentially living inside of me. Moving, growing… _Being_. And not to mention, adding all sorts of weird and unusual hormones to my body. Hmm. That might be it. Either way, I _am_ fond of you, I hope you know that… Lots of websites I've looked at say you can hear a distorted, fuzzy version of my voice and that speaking to you is supposed to help with in-womb development. Not sure what I think about that. _But_, if it'll help, I suppose it can't hurt to try, hmm? I mean, I am a scientist, after all. I'd be disgracing all of the rules I hold dear if I was not to execute all available experiments." Smiling contently to himself as a strange flutter of an unfamiliar emotion traveled from the back of his neck and down to his stomach, Sherlock rubbed a few fingers across the pale skin of his protruding middle, amazed once again by the proof of the human life inside as it bumped against his hand.

"Beautiful. I'm quite anxious to meet you. Although, I would appreciate it if you could hurry up. I fear both of us may be running out of room, hmm? And, ahem, excuse me for saying so," he apologized guiltily, gazing down at his stomach, "but I have a certain physical figure to maintain. And, though I'm quite glad you're growing and umm… Everything… I am quite ready to meet you and regain my past… Figure," he admitted, somewhat sadly, shooting a quick glance towards his closet, where all of his original suits were hanging in preparation for after the birth of the baby.

Chuckling lightly as there was a small pause in the movement, Sherlock found his robe and quickly draped it over his still-lanky frame. "Of course; you choose _now_ to calm down. Do you realize how much effort it takes me to move around now? And it's all your fault," he murmured fondly to his stomach, cradling the curve in one of his hands as began to slowly pad around his room, the light footfalls filling the otherwise silent flat. "Eh, that's all right, I suppose. John claims it means you're doing well and growing, so... I'll take a thousand more sleepless nights if it means your safety… But don't tell _him_ I said that. It'll be the end of me," Sherlock chuckled lightheartedly, pressing the palms of his hand on either side of his middle. "Lovely… Oh! I've seen you, you know. On a sono-mono-gram-something-or-other. I never can remember… Anyway! I thought you looked simply spectacular," he whispered, sitting down on the edge of the bed as he spoke to the wall. In response to the detective's soothing voice, the baby's kicks quickly died down. With a quick 'tsk' sound, a fond smile slowly quirked on the corner of Sherlock's lips. "I still can't get over how tiny you are… Though, admittedly, you _feel_ much larger than I know you actually are," he chuckled, absently brushing a few fingertips over the taut skin of his middle as he thought aloud, enjoying the reassuring flutters beneath his skin. "And I know you're a girl. John keeps trying to convince me that there's no possible way I can tell… But he'll see when I'm correct," Sherlock smirked contently.

Suddenly realizing he'd been talking to himself, the detective gave a sharp shake of his head, and then looked down to realize he was cradling his stomach. Smiling at the sight, Sherlock stood, keeping his hands firmly in place. "Sorry," he apologized softly, stroking a finger over his bellybutton. "I was talking aloud. You'll find I do that a lot. Helps me to think… Anyway! Come along. I'm hungry." Acting as if his baby had some say in the matter, Sherlock silently padded into the kitchen and pulled open a cupboard. "Toast… Or peanut butter," he mused aloud, glancing between the two. "My thoughts exactly." Giving a satisfied nod of his head, and deciding that the baby had somehow given him the answer, the detective eagerly reached for the peanut butter, grabbed a spoon and treaded into the sitting room, settling comfortably into the cushions of the couch.

"I'm going to get fat and it's all your fault," he grumbled as he pushed the spoon in to the bottom of the almost-empty jar. "I just hope you know that. It's your fault." Sherlock pointed accusingly at his middle, though he was smiling in spite of himself.

"Right, then. Time for an update." Taking one last spoonful into his mouth, the detective dropped the jar and utensil onto the floor and grabbed his computer. Groaning slightly as he rolled onto his side, Sherlock positioned the laptop on his hip. "Excellent."

* * *

John awoke to a completely silent flat. Yawning as he made his way down to the stairs, and assuming his flat mate was sound asleep in his room, the doctor made his way towards the kitchen but paused in the doorway upon hearing a gentle rustling.

Brows tugging together in mild confusion, John turned and paused in the doorway to the sitting room upon seeing Sherlock's tall form curled about the couch, a slender hand sprawled protectively over his bump, the two rising and falling in tandem as he slept.

Almost smiling at the sight, John took a careful step forward so as to get a better look at his friend's peacefully slumbering form. Placing his hands on his hips, the doctor paused to take a moment and really get a good look at Sherlock, and notice for the first time how his pregnancy had changed him.

The detective's features seemed as if they had softened; the lines and planes that usually sculpted his sharp features were nowhere to be seen, now replaced by subtle dips and curves. John noticed how the change made his friend seem younger, and more peaceful, now that the usually concentrated looks were no longer marring his features. The doctor's gaze quickly flitted to Sherlock's hand as the long fingers absently twitched on top of his belly, clutching at the skin there, as if the detective's subconscious needed to make sure all was well. Clearly satisfied, Sherlock's breathing quickly returned to normal and his fingers paused, gracefully curling back together.

John held his breath as the detective shifted on the couch, making room for his protruding bump, and curled against the back of the couch, mouth falling open as he sighed in his sleep, curling his arms protectively around his middle. John noticed for the first time, Sherlock's laptop perched precariously on his side, and hurried forward to catch the computer before it fell.

Mumbling to himself and silently scolding the detective, the doctor was about to close the laptop, but paused as he glanced at the screen. Balancing the computer on the palm of his hand, John quickly danced a few fingers over the trackpad, to make the screen brighter and blinked a few times as he saw a spreadsheet open. Daring a quick glance at Sherlock to make sure he had not woken up, John leaned further towards the computer, trying to get a better look at the tiny typing.

"Number of kicks," he murmured aloud, reading the different categories running up and down the left side of the spreadsheet. "Frequency… Strength?" Suddenly realizing, a wide grin spread across John's lips as he realized what he was looking at. Sherlock had been keeping track of the changes in his pregnancy, and, most recently, the number, frequency, and strength of the baby's kicks.

The doctor nearly laughed out loud as he saw: "Number of Stretch Marks: **ZERO**."

"Look at you," he whispered fondly, quietly so as not to wake his sleeping friend as he gave the detective a fond smile. "You'll make a fine dad," he concluded with a satisfied nod of his head as his gaze lingered on the careful hold Sherlock had around his bared middle. The doctor couldn't help but stare at the alabaster skin hidden under his friend's fingers, amazed that Sherlock—_his_ smart-arse, 'I always know everything,' flat mate: Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes—was growing a human life inside of him. A human life, John knew, the detective was quite fond of.

Smiling at the thought, John quickly found a blanket and draped it over Sherlock's peaceful form, giving his friend a quick pat on the arm. "Sleep well, mate," he murmured fondly, daring one last, quick glance at his flat mate's hidden fingers, which he knew were clutching protectively at his stomach.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open briefly at the movement and contact, but then quickly slid closed again as he curled (impossibly) even more around himself, returning to his peaceful slumber.

Smiling, John quickly slipped away into the kitchen, closing the door behind him, so as to give Sherlock as much time to sleep as possible, having noticed the way the detective was becoming more and more exhausted as the days wore on.

* * *

Sherlock awoke with a small shudder. Yawning, the detective stretched his lanky form out on the couch, toes touching the other end of the lounge as he awoke. Keen senses quickly thrumming to life, Sherlock froze, tugging his brows together as he became aware of something draped over him. Groaning softly as he opened his eyes and was assaulted with the bright light of morning, the detective averted his gaze to his body, frowning slightly as he saw the blanket. "John?" he murmured aloud, pushing himself into a sitting position. "Mmm. Good morning to you, too," Sherlock chuckled, a hand floating to his stomach as the baby moved. "Come along, then. Smells like John's been cooking."

Hoisting himself into a standing position, Sherlock quickly kneaded a few fingers into the base of back, wincing at the soreness there. "Your fault," he whispered, with a raised eyebrow down to his middle. Heaving a sigh, and pulling his robe snuggly around himself, the detective slowly made his way towards the kitchen, enjoying the delicious smells floating in from under the door.

"Mmm. Actually cooking something edible, are we?" he drawled, sliding open the door.

"Oh! Geez, Sherlock," John sighed, jumping slightly as he heard Sherlock's deep voice. "Do you think next time you could knock?" he accused, returning to the sizzling skillet.

"It's the kitchen."

"Well—yes, but… Oh, piss off."

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed with a sly smile, pleased with himself. Crossing his fingers across his middle, the detective leaned back in a chair, quirking an eyebrow at John's frantic working. "What _are_ you doing?"

"Being a good friend," the doctor scoffed distractedly, shooting his flat mate a quick glare.

"In what way?"

"I'm making you breakfast, you bloody git… And, in case you were wondering, a 'thank you' wouldn't go amiss, just so you know."

"I wasn't," Sherlock mumbled, picking up a newspaper lying on the table and absently skimming through the stories. "Oh that's a shame," he murmured with a click of tongue, nodding to a story.

"You're welcome," John muttered, quickly spooning some food onto a plate and dropping it (with a little more force than necessary) in front of Sherlock.

"Mmm. Thank you, John," the detective murmured, still engrossed in the article.

"You're wel… Wait, what?"

"Thank you," Sherlock reiterated, reaching forward and taking a piece of toast in his hand before returning to the story as he munched on the bread.

Smiling in a small, rather amazed way, John just gave a dazed nod of his head, unused to hearing a 'thank you' coming from Sherlock's mouth. Much less hearing a 'thank you' directed at him.

"Mmm," the detective merely hummed in reply, completely engrossed in the article he was reading.

* * *

**24 weeks**

"Bored… And my wrists hurts."

"Go do something."

"Like _what_?"

"Read—"

"Dull."

"Okay… You could write something—"

"Even more dull."

"You could—"

"I need a case! Or cigarettes… But I'm not allowed to have those anymore… Or my patches… Apparently," Sherlock drawled, shooting a hopeful glance towards John who, in turn raised a stern eyebrow. "Fine. And nothing on the website?"

"Nope. Nothing. No calls from Greg either."

"Greg?"

"Lestrade!" John cried in exasperation, tossing down the book he was reading.

"Ah, I see," Sherlock hummed. Chewing his lip with his teeth, the detective linked his fingers over the slight bump of his middle, and began to absentmindedly stroke his thumbs up and down the fabric of the shirt he was wearing. "My goodness, would you calm down?"

"But I'm not—"

"_Not you_, John. Little miss here. She seems to find it necessary to kick me and move around at every waking moment… It's most distracting. And I would greatly appreciate a moment of peace," he added loudly, scowling at his stomach.

"Ah, I see, I see… Well… On the topic of your… Ahem, 'condition'… If you're so bored, you could always update that sheet you're keeping," John suggested slyly, returning his gaze to his book, and ignoring the glare he knew he was now receiving from Sherlock. "Admit it. You secretly like it."

"Like _what_?" the detective muttered unhappily, hopping up from his position on the couch to grab his laptop, before shooting John one more icy glare.

"The movement. _It_. You enjoy all of it."

"Do I?"

"Yes."

"Proof?"

"The spreadsheet you're currently updating?" John smirked, raising an eyebrow and chuckling aloud as his flat mate's fingers paused on the keys.

"Valid. Fine, fine… Yes, I am… Generally fond."

"Mmm-hmm. Come on, Sherlock. You're a little more than generally fond. Why are you so embarrassed about liking all of this? It's a baby—_your_ baby, no less. It's perfectly natural to enjoy it."

"Well… I would 'enjoy it' more if I didn't feel the need to use the washroom every thirty minutes," Sherlock mumbled embarrassedly, quickly returning to the computer. "But other than that, I suppose you could say… Wait. What did you say?"

"When?"

"Just now. You said… _My_ baby.."

"Well yes, of course," John said seriously, brows knitting together in confusion as he stared at Sherlock's frozen form.

"Why?"

Putting the book down and angling himself so as to better see his friend, John took a deep breath. "Because it—or she, as you prefer—is yours. I mean… She's a _part_ of you. Growing inside of you. Alive _because_ of you. Therefore, your baby. See?"

Sherlock, still frozen in his position on the couch, clearly seemed to be contemplating his friend's words. "So… You mean to say… She's… A part of me?" he asked quietly, gaze fixed on the ground.

"Well, yes of course she is," John murmured softly, watching with careful eyes, and hoping this conversation would not end up going where he thought it might.

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed, fingers curling against the curve of his middle as he thought. "My baby," he whispered, so quietly John almost didn't hear. "Yes, I… Suppose she isn't, isn't she? Hmm. Lovely."

"Yeah… It is," the doctor murmured, a small smile gracing his lips as he noticed the rather amazed looking of understanding that crossed Sherlock's sculpted features. "And you're quite amazing for doing it."

"Doing what?"

"Having 'her'."

"Ah. Well, I wouldn't quite go that far. She's quite more amazing than I am," Sherlock murmured with a fond gesture to his stomach. "I mean, she's the one doing all the growing and moving and… Being. Have you ever read anything on a developing baby in womb?" the detective questioned, suddenly very energetic.

Deciding to give his friend this little victory and moment of happiness, John allowed Sherlock to animatedly explain every detail of what was happening to the baby he was carrying and what had happened in the weeks past… And, though John had already learned every detail Sherlock was explaining, and more, he merely sat tight, nodding occasionally, and listened fondly to the detective's descriptive explanation all of the incredibly amazing things happening inside him.


	7. Chapter Seven: Fears and Reassurances

Chapter Seven: Fears and Reassurances

**25 weeks**

"Why do we need to go _shopping_?" Sherlock whined as he gracefully pulled on his long coat.

"Because, Sherlock. There's going to be a _baby_ living her in a few weeks, and we are seriously under-prepared."

"… Fine," Sherlock huffed with an eye roll. Stuffing his slender fingers in his pockets, the detective turned and glided down the stairs, looking graceful and smooth as ever, John noted. It still never ceased to amaze him that Sherlock, though quite pregnant, could still manage to move so swiftly and with such grace.

Chuckling at the thought, the doctor buttoned up his coat and followed the detective down the stairs, pausing at the landing as he saw Sherlock, his back to him, gazing warily into the mirror at his left. John noticed that, from the back, Sherlock still looked completely normal; his thin waist still drew inwards with a gentle dip and then back out again as if like an hourglass. For a moment, it no longer looked as if anything was different with him… Let alone, that he had a twenty-five-week-old baby growing inside of him. "What are you thinking about?" John asked softly, clearly breaking his friend's train of thought as he opened the front door.

"Thirteen," Sherlock murmured as they slid into the cab John had called.

"Uhh, okay… What's that got to do with anything?"

"The number of fetal movement in the past hour."

"… I still don't understand."

"Oh of course you don't; you always require an explanation for _everything_." Heaving a sigh and then groaning slightly at the effort, Sherlock shifted, having to make accommodations for his middle, and then settled back into his seat, lacing a few fingers over the top of his hidden bump, which was quickly becoming a new favorite pose. "Babies at twenty-five weeks usually exhibit twenty to thirty fetal movements per hour. I, however, have only experienced thirteen. Wait…" The detective held a finger up to silence the remark he knew was poised on John's tongue.

"Moving now?" the doctor asked, despite his friend's slender finger.

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed in reply, a small smile quirking over his lips as he gazed fondly at his stomach.

"Ah, I see," John sighed, finally understanding. "You're worried because it's—"

"She."

"_It_… Has not been moving the expected twenty to thirty times an hour."

"Precisely. About time you got something right," Sherlock muttered under his breath, though the smile still on his lips seemed to soften the insult.

"Yeah, right, thanks. Anyway, what's the problem?"

Sherlock fixed John with a looked that quite clearly said: _Really? I knew you were an idiot, but really?_ "She's not been moving the normal documented amount, _John_."

"So?"

"_So_? So maybe something's wrong with her… We should go get an ultrasound. Hmm… Yes. Good, let's go. Driver, could you instead—"

"Ah, ah! No," John cried, wrapping a hand around the detective's arm and tugging him back.

"Well why ever not?"

"Because _we_ are on our way to the store to go shopping for baby things; we don't have time to make a stop right now, because if we do, I can guarantee you the shopping will never get done. We can do an ultrasound later, okay? Yes?"

Pouting slightly, Sherlock leaned back into the seat, wincing slightly at the soreness in his lower back. Chewing his lip with his teeth, the detective leaned forward and kneaded a few fingers into his back.

"Sore?" John asked.

"Mmm. Indeed."

"Sorry."

Upon hearing John's words, Sherlock's fingers stilled and he turned to look at the doctor, brows knitted together. "Why?" he asked, genuinely curious. "It's not your fault."

"Well of course not, but I can still feel sorry, can't I?"

"Well… I—I suppose, but… _Why_?" Sherlock asked, face fixed in an expression of true curiosity and mild wonder.

"Because you're my friend," John stated simply, with a slight shrug of his shoulders. "And I know how hard all of this," he made a vague gesture towards Sherlock's stomach, "has been for you. And I understand all of the changes you've had to undergo. You've made a lot of sacrifices for this baby, and quite frankly, I think you're doing wonderfully with the whole thing, so I guess I just feel sorry for you sometimes when, you know, things like this happen," John practically gasped, the words tumbling off his tongue without a second thought. "That's uh—ahem—that's all, I huh… Yeah," the doctor mumbled, now quite embarrassed.

Averting his gaze, John scooted to the far side of the cab and stared out the window. When, after several minutes of silence, there came not even a whisper from Sherlock, the doctor dared a hesitant glance towards his flat mate and nearly froze, himself. The detective's face was set in a soft expression, with a tender smile on his lips, those piercing blue-grey-green eyes merely gazing at the doctor.

"What?" John asked worriedly.

"That was very kind of you to say," Sherlock replied with a genuine touch of thankfulness lacing his rumbling voice. "It's nice to… Feel as if I'm not alone in all of this. It can be quite… Quite daunting at times," the detective murmured, though he was worrying his lip in a way that John knew meant he was thinking aloud.

"What can be?"

"Oh, you know… The whole _idea_ of it, I suppose. Another human life, which is entirely _mine_ to take care of and protect, even now," he whispered, punctuating it with an incredibly tender pat to his stomach. "It's just rather terrifying sometimes to think she's completely dependent on me…" Sherlock was too caught up with his musing to notice that John was grinning warmly at him. With a sharp intake of breath, the detective blinked a few times before giving a firm nod of his head. "Anyway! Yes, thank you. Where are we going?"

"The store?"

"Oh, yes! Right. Baby stuff… Why?"

"Bloody hell!"

* * *

By the time they finally arrived at the shops, John was just about ready to pull his hair out and Sherlock still was not understanding the point of going shopping for baby items.

Pulling his coat firmly around him, Sherlock slid out of the cab and hurried after John, who had already marched up to the doors.

"Ready?" the doctor sighed as Sherlock reached him.

"I suppose so, but I still don't—"

"Ah!" John cried, holding a finger up. "Not. A. Word." Shaking his head, the doctor pushed open the door, not bothering to hold it open for his following flat mate. "Okay. Let's start with the bigger items first, hmm?" he asked, grabbing a cart.

"Fine," Sherlock huffed with an eye roll. Scowling to himself, the detective begrudgingly grabbed a cart of his own and started to wheel it out after John. "My thoughts exactly," he murmured in affection at a series of kicks he received to his middle. "Well, at least you're moving around now. Just tired, hmm?" A smile. "Or perhaps you're just lazy. Like me."

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Coming?"

"Oh. Yes."

* * *

An hour and twenty-one minutes later, Sherlock and John had finally decided on a cot, pram (though Sherlock insisted it would never be used), several different brands of bottles (because Sherlock needed to test which were actually reliable), an absolutely ridiculous amount of baby formula (for similar reasons to the bottles) and a blanket lined with tags the detective had vehemently insisted on buying for some unknown reason to John.

Now, the two flat mates were standing in the baby clothes section, with Sherlock gazing distastefully at the wide array of fabric. "These are simply appalling," he muttered, snatching a pink onesie that read, "Mommy's Little Monkey," and holding it away with two fingers, as if worried he might catch some sort if disease from the fabric.

"They're baby clothes, Sherlock; they're supposed to be cute," John chuckled, thumbing through a rack of gender-neutral onesies.

"Well, they are anything but. Do explain to me why babies cannot just wear regular, normal, 'un-cute' clothes. I mean it's not as if the babies, themselves are going to know the difference."

"Like this?" John asked, holding up a completely plain, yellow onesie.

"Mmm, closer. But no yellow."

"What? Why not?"

"Because yellow is a positively appalling color, one of which no child of mine will ever be seen in."

"Well, okay, then. What color _do_ you suggest?"

Sherlock thought for a moment, drumming a few fingers against the cart handle. "... Black," he stated firmly with a content nod of his head. "I wear black almost every day, it matches everything, and is technically a combination of every known color. Therefore: black is colorful. Yes, very good then. Black."

"No!" John cried suddenly, throwing his arms in the air and startling Sherlock in the process. "The baby is _not_ going to wear black!"

"Well—"

"Or brown. Or grey. We're getting yellow."

Scowling, Sherlock quickly ran a few fingers through his perfectly-groomed raven curls. "Purple," he compromised eventually with a raise brow, grabbing a few dark purple baby grows and tossing them in the cart. "Good?" he asked dryly, brow still raised.

"Better," John chuckled, not so much because the situation was humorous, but because he felt he may cry out if he didn't. "What about blue?"

"But it's a girl," Sherlock stated, now thumbing through the selection of clothes, himself.

"You don't know that," the doctor countered, plucking a few dark blue onesies and throwing them to the pile.

"Hmm. I don't like the blue," Sherlock hummed, though his back was to the cart and he hadn't turned around.

"How could you—"

"It's boring... And meant for a male child. Get some pink."

"You're serious?"

Hands stilling their frantic movements, Sherlock turned to fix John with one of his usual looks. _Would I have said it if I wasn't?_

"Okay, okay, fine. I just... Didn't think you'd actually put up an offer or suggestion."

"I suggested black."

"Doesn't count."

"By your parameters, it does," Sherlock smirked, returning to the rack and plucking out a few garments before draping them over his forearm to hold one in his hand and inspect it.

Feeling the frustration quickly drain from his veins, John's expression softened as he watched Sherlock carefully examine the fabric of one of the outfits, running it through his capable fingers. And it occurred to the doctor that, by carefully and vigorously inspecting the fabric, Sherlock's was showing he cared, in his own unusual Sherlock Holmes way. And John knew that although the detective pretended to be indifferent, Sherlock was secretly excited about the whole endeavor. John could see it in the feather-light touches to his stomach, meant to be just a twitch of the fingers, and the tender glances to his concealed middle, as if to check the baby was still there and safe.

Smiling at the memory and deciding to leave his friend to his thoughts and observations, John silently returned to sifting through the baby clothes and pulled out a few pink baby grows, not noticing the fond quirk of his flat mate's lips when he did so.

* * *

John and Sherlock were standing in the check-out line, both carts full, with the doctor unloading each and every one of the items onto the conveyor belt while Sherlock scrolled through his mobile.

"You could help a bit, you know," John groaned as he struggled with the large box containing the cot.

"Well, of course I _could_. I'm just choosing not to."

"And why the bloody hell not?"

"Busy and pregnant, remember?"

A groan. "Fine."

"Oh, finally!" came the triumphant cry of Sherlock.

"What?" John spat, not bothering to turn around as he started on the many, many cans and bottles and jars of formula.

"Lestrade. New case. Meet me at the flat." And then he was gone, coat billowing behind him as he escaped out the doors.

"Bloody git."

* * *

By the time John returned to the flat, several bags slung over his arms as he attempted to push the large box containing the cot up the stairs, he was more than royally frustrated.

"Phone, John," Sherlock murmured from where he was laying on the couch, fingers steepled under his chin.

"_What_?"

"My mobile, John. I've been asking you to pass it to me."

"Ah, right. So sorry that I was busy buying and carrying all the crap for _your_ baby, might I remind you," the doctor hissed irritably, making sure to shove the box across the floor with extra vigor, just for good measure.

Eyes blinking open with a start, Sherlock craned his neck to frown at his flat mate, though the doctor was already storming back down the stairs. Heaving a dramatic sigh, the detective rolled himself over and slid off the couch with a groan. "Ah!" he gasped in excitement as he felt another series of strong, yet reassuring kicks to his middle. "Good! You're still moving," the detective chuckled fondly, smiling down at the protrusion of his clothed belly. "I was getting worried earlier, " he added with a feather-light touch to his stomach. "Must have just been sleeping again, hmm? Probably John's fault for waking you up, you know, with all the noise he was making... What was he..." Eyeing the box that had jolted him—and his child, apparently—from their thoughts, Sherlock left the couch and sauntered over to the cot. "Hmm..." he hummed, raising an eyebrow at the box.

* * *

Muttering to himself as returned with a second and then a third load of shopping bags and boxes, John finally heaved a sigh of relief as he finished. Wading through the many, many bags of shopping, the doctor plopped down in his chair, heaving a sigh as he settled into the cushions. "Thank you, by the way," he spat, not even bothering to open his eyes as he spoke towards the couch. "Your help was most appreciated. Why is it that I'm always the one who does all the… Sherlock. Sherlock?" Realizing that no smart-arse retort, or even sound had come, John opened his eyes and glanced towards the couch, frowning when he realized the detective was no longer laying there.

Heaving a sigh, the doctor pushed himself out of the chair and made his way through the kitchen and to his flat mate's room, smirking when he saw the door was closed. Without bothering to give some sort of verbal warning, John silently pushed open the door just enough so that he could peer in. And he couldn't help the grin that spread over his lips as he caught sight of what was happening.

Sherlock sat cross-legged on the floor, his back to the door, with pieces of the cot scattered all around him and a set of instructions clutched tightly in one hand and a piece of the crib in the other. About half of the cot was completed, but Sherlock now seemed to be confused as to where he was supposed to go.

Desperately trying to stifle the few giggles he felt quickly approaching, John pulled out his mobile and was just about to take as many pictures as he could.

"Put it away, John," came Sherlock's deep, and quite clearly flustered voice.

"How the bloody hell do you always—"

"Doesn't matter. Come help me."

Slightly flabbergasted that the detective was actually asking him for help, John sort of stumbled into the room, nodding his head a few times. "Uh, sure. What, uhh… What?"

"_Help_, John. I need your help putting this bloody thing together. This instructions are entirely less than helpful; they make no sense."

"Well… Ah. That's because you need to turn it," John laughed, taking the paper from Sherlock's fingers and turning it.

"Oh. Well, then… Ahem, thank you."

"Uh-huh," John smirked, plopping down next to the detective and clicking several pieces into place.

* * *

Five minutes later, Sherlock decided that if John was willing to help, the doctor could finish the cot by himself, and though it went mostly unnoticed by his flat mate, carefully slipped out of the room to focus on the case Lestrade had handed him.

Twenty minutes later, the detective returned to find the cot was almost completely finished.

"See? Wasn't that hard!" John gasped triumphantly as he clicked the last piece into place.

"Very good job, John," Sherlock praised mockingly, giving his flat mate a quick pat on the shoulder.

"Yeah, I know, that was… Oh." An eye roll. "You bloody git. You got me to put this whole thing together for you."

"Yes, I did. And it looks lovely, thank you. Now, if you could just move it over there."

With a frustrated sigh, John shoved himself into a standing position and glared at his flat mate.

"Pregnant," Sherlock jeered with a raised eyebrow before nodding to the completed cot. "Go on, then. It would be a shame if, because I exerted the energy and muscle to move the cot, there was some sort of complication later on, wouldn't it?"

Biting back the string of profanities he was ready to spew, John merely set his jaw and moved over to the cot, picking it up, and then turned back to his flat mate, waiting expectantly.

"Other side of the bed, please," Sherlock told him with a pleased smirk. "Yes, just there. Thank you, then. Oh! Finally, there's been an update! John, go get your coat, we're going to The Yard."

Mumbling to himself, and not bothering to grace Sherlock with even a glare, John merely marched out of the room, shutting the door a little too forcefully behind him, though the action only made the detective chuckle to himself.

Quickly finding his coat, Sherlock hurried over to the other side of the bed, where the cot now sat, and pulled it on. He was just about to head back out of the room when the sight of the cot in his room, prompted him to pause. Suddenly feeling a paternal flutter course through his veins, Sherlock leaned over the crib, and glanced into it, smiling at the thought that in just a few weeks, a baby—his baby—would be sleeping inside. "Almost there, hmm?" he whispered, glancing now towards his abdomen. "Soon… Soon."

Having one last thought, Sherlock quickly found one of the bags he'd brought into his room and pulled out the tag blanket he'd bought. Smiling once again, the detective pressed his nose into the soft fabric, running one of the tags lining the edges through his thumb and forefinger. "Mmm," he sighed, as memories of his own childhood came flooding back.

Memorizing the smell and feel of the fabric, Sherlock leaned down and carefully placed the blanket on the bottom of the cot. "There we go…"

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm? Oh. Coming!" With one last look towards the completed cot and the blanket, Sherlock quickly glided out of his room.

* * *

"Good, then. Call me as soon as there is another one. But make sure every detail is exactly the same. If anything is different, even the most minuscule detail, it's not our man, understood?"

"Oh, uh… Yeah, yeah," Lestrade muttered, sounding incredibly confused. "Good, then I'll just—"

"_Well_... If it isn't the Scotland Yard Freak. How ya' doing?" came the sneering voice of Sally Donovan. Lestrade had tried his best to keep her away from Sherlock for the duration of his pregnancy, but unfortunately, he could only come up with so many excuses before the Sergeant began to become suspicious.

With an eye roll, Sherlock turned so he was facing the Sergeant. "Ah, Sally. How wonderful to see you," he drawled cooly, draping his coat over his lean shoulders in the hope that it would conceal his bump.

"Oh, please. Don't act as if nothing's wrong," Donovan continued, taking a predator-like step into Lestrade's office. "I know all about your little _experiment_," she spat, as if the words tasted bad on her tongue. "Though, I must admit, Lestrade did an excellent job of keeping the secret."

"Shit," John breathed softly as he came to the realization that Sally knew about the pregnancy. "Sherlock," he added in a whisper so quite, he doubted even the detective heard. Biting his bottom lip, the doctor dared a quick glance to his friend and felt his heart twinge painfully in his chest.

Sherlock's face, though already pale, was now void of any and all color, and had taken on a translucent appearance. His jaw was set in withheld anger, causing a sharp line to slope down the length of his neck. John could see how desperately Sherlock was trying to restrain himself from touching his stomach, and the need to protect, to _shield_, his unborn child. The betrayal, however, was the detective's eyes. Their ever-changing shades were bright with a mixture of hatred, fear, and most notably: shame... An emotion John didn't even think existed in his flat mate's small repertoire of emotions. And, the doctor quickly noticed, tears were beginning to brim in Sherlock's eyes.

"Shut up, Sally," he snapped suddenly, cutting her off mid-insult. "Just... Shut up."

Tears still threatening to spill over, Sherlock turned, mouth hanging open slightly, watery eyes wide with mild shock and utter gratefulness as he watched John take a step in front of him towards Donovan.

"Why are you so cruel? You're just cruel. This man has been, and is going through more than you have and ever would be, lucky enough to experience. Sure, Sally, he's a little different. But his is creating something beautiful inside of him, and that's more than you can say for yourself, Sally. So you just leave him _alone_."

Quite clearly flabergasted into silence, Donovan merely stared open-mouthed and wide-eyed at John, desperately attempting to find some sort of clever retort.

"Well," she finally managed. "Let's just hope the poor child looks like its _other_ father."

"Get out!" Lestrade hollered, attempting to cover Sally's comment with his voice, but it was too late.

"Sherlock," John tried carefully, taking a hesitant step towards his friend's now-stricken form. "Sherlock, are you—" he started, placing a few fingers to the detective's arm.

"No." With a small shudder, Sherlock shrugged away from his friend's touch and, before anyone could even register it, had ghosted out of the room…

"Sherlock," John sighed sadly, sending Lestrade an apologetic smile before hurrying after the detective, deciding not to tell Greg of the unmistakeable intake of breath he'd heard from Sherlock, which he knew all too well as the beginnings of a sob.

* * *

Knowing that Sherlock would head to the only place he would feel safe, and hoping he would be able to reach 221B just as his flat mate did, John had quickly called a cab and managed to make it to the flat in record time.

"Thanks, mate," he said hurriedly, throwing a series of bills at the cabbie before making a dash for the door and hurrying up the stairs into 221B. "Sherlock?" he called quietly and gently as he stepped into the sitting room. Frowning slightly when the detective was nowhere to be found, the doctor suddenly gave a small sigh of understanding. With a deep breath, John walked to Sherlock's room, feeling his suspicions were only confirmed when he found the detective's door to be closed. "Sherlock? Sherlock, it's John," he called, injecting as much gentleness in the tones of his voice as he could. When no answer came, the doctor carefully pushed open the door, and paused in the doorway when he saw the detective, standing with his back to him, at the foot of the bed, quite obviously stricken. "Sherlock…" A hesitant step closer. "Hey, look at me." Another. "Sherlock, you can't listen to anything she says and put any stock in it." Two more. "Sherlock?" he asked again, voice not even a whisper. Final step. "Sherlock, look at me," he urged with a light touch to the detective's arm.

Gasping slightly at the sensation of touch, Sherlock jumped away from his friend's touch, eyes wide and tear-filled. "John," he breathed, chest suddenly heaving with painful breaths as his eyes darted frantically about the room. "No, she—John, she…" Releasing a sob that had been building and constricting in his chest, the detective's hands started to quickly clench and then unclench at his sides.

Knowing the signs all too well, John quickly rushed forward and seized Sherlock's shaking form on either side of his arms. "Sherlock, Sherlock," he chanted in soothing tones, guiding the panicking detective to the bed and setting him down. "Sherlock, look at me. Sherlock, you're having a panic attack. You need to calm down," he murmured calmly, rubbing a hand up and down his friend's shuddering back. "Come on, Sherlock, you can do it."

A few tears spilling free, and with his breaths traveling in and out in painful gasps, Sherlock buried his face in his hands, not even noticing as he leaned into John's reassuring touch. "Bath… Bathroom," he finally managed between shudders.

"Right, then. Come along." But the detective had already escaped from his hold and was hurrying into the bathroom. "Oh, Sherlock," John sighed sadly as saw Sherlock curl himself around the toilet and promptly retch into it.

Ever the doctor, John quickly hurried over and managed to pull of Sherlock's coat. "Just calm down… You'll be all right," he murmured, squatting down and then stroking a hand up and down his friend's back as he convulsed again. "You'll be all right…"

Exhaling sharply, Sherlock—rather violently—shoved himself away from the toilet, gasping for breath, and still shuddering. A tear falling free and traveling down the dips and planes of his cheek, the detective gently pulled away from John's touch, and turned, staring frozen at the wall.

Realizing that Sherlock was wanting to do this on his own, John slowly backed away and crouched in the doorway, watching with careful eyes, in case he should need to do anything quickly.

Taking a deep breath, and ignoring the bitter taste in his mouth, Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, desperately trying to rid his mind of Sally's voice, bouncing around and echoing. _Other father… Other father… Other father…_ "No," he breathed aloud, turning away in embarrassment from his friend's sad gaze. "Not… Not…"

Suddenly, however, there came a movement from inside of him. An incredibly tiny, almost barely noticeable flutter of pops and kicks from his middle.

Gasping at the sensation, Sherlock's silvery eyes quickly flew open, and with them, flew away the sneering voice of Sally, as well as her words. Almost immediately, the pounding in his head dissipated; the sick feeling that had been churning in his stomach was no longer there; the shaking and shuddering of his limbs and body was no longer happening. "Oh," he breathed, quickly sliding both of his hands under his clothing, pressing them to the slight protrusion of his middle and flattening his palms against the skin. Almost immediately, there came several more movements from his baby, kicking him on the inside and outside, as if to reassure him that everything was all right.

"Oh, I know… I know," Sherlock whispered, finding the sensation incredibly grounding and reassuring. "I'm here… Sorry, love… I'm sorry. Oh…" Closing his eyes one last time, the detective allowed himself a few moments just to revel in the incredible feeling of his baby—_his_ baby girl—communicating with him, sending him signs of reassurance and safety. "Thank you, love," he mouthed, running both of his thumbs up and down over the tight skin of stomach. "Oh, thank you…" Not bothering to worry that John was watching him, Sherlock leaned his head back against the tub, and closed his eyes, focusing on getting his breathing and body returning to normal. "I'm here," he whispered over and over again as he received a series of rather distressed kicks to his abdomen, as he knew that a baby in the womb could feel and sense their mother's emotions and worries and fears. "I'm so sorry… I'm here… We're both all right now. So sorry..."

John merely sat silently, not daring to move or breath or make a sound. He waited patiently, somehow feeling as if he was invading on an incredible intimate moment between Sherlock and his baby. But still, the doctor just sat, watching as his flat mate's chest stopped its heaving, and his fingers loosened so they were no longer grasping at his middle, but were rather just curled protectively around the showing skin.

Gathering himself and collecting and sorting through his jumbled thoughts, Sherlock cleared his throat, and, refusing to release the protective hold he had on his stomach, managed to get himself into a standing position. John quickly followed suit, though stayed where he was in the doorway. "Better?"

"Mmm… Quite," Sherlock murmured, eyes downcast in embarrassment. "Apologies for that, I uh… Don't know what… Happened."

"Sherlock, you don't need to apologize for anything. I've had quite a few panic attacks of my own, so I understand how scary and gripping they can be… And how unexpected, as well… Don't apologize…"

Finally meeting his friend's gaze, Sherlock merely stared down into his flat mate's colorful eyes, feeling tears of gratefulness and understanding quickly fill his eyes. "Thank you," he whispered, with a nod of his head. "I just… What she said…"

"No, no, no, Sally was completely out of place. She had no right to say the things she did, and don't you dare listen to her for a second!" John spat, taking Sherlock back with the pure anger and hatred radiating from his person. "You have done so much, and done it all so well. And I just… I can't believe she had the _nerve_ to say something so horrible."

"Thank you," Sherlock whispered once again, not even attempting to conceal the raw emotion from leaking into his voice. "Thank you, John… But… But, John what if Donovan's right? What if she," a nod to his middle, "looks just like him, and—and what if I can't bear to love her because of it?" Sherlock said hurriedly. And now that he'd started, the detective was worried that he might not be able to stop the tumble of thoughts and fears transferring themselves to words in his mouth. "What if she's born, and she has his hair, or mouth, or face, or eyes, and I can't bear to look at her? John, what if I don't love her because of it! How could she… John, what if I can't bear it, or—or—what will happen if every time I look at her I see _him_, staring back at me with those eyes?"

Suddenly realizing where Sherlock's panic had stemmed from, John surged forward and guided his friend's tense form from the bathroom. "Can I tell you something?" he asked, gazing up at his flat mate's taller form.

Stopping his ramblings, Sherlock pressed his lips together and gave a nod of his head. "Go on."

"Even if she does look like him, I can promise you… You will love her with all your heart. Because, even if she has his eyes, or face, or hair, or mouth, she will always have a part of you inside of her, right? Moran is not here," John said, feeling a twinge in his chest as he saw Sherlock flinch at the name, but continued on. "He is not, has not been, and will not be this baby's father. _Ever_. You are. You're the one carrying it, the one protecting it, and caring for it—"

"Her."

"Exactly. For her… That's all you. Not him. Yes? Would you agree?" A feeble nod. "Exactly. So, whether she looks like him, or looks like you, I can promise you… You will love her."

"How do you know, though?" Sherlock asked, sounding utterly broken. "Where's the data, the facts, the information?"

Chuckling silently, John's gaze fell to the detective's middle. "Right there," he stated with a raised eyebrow, pointing to Sherlock's hands, clutching desperately to the skin of his bared abdomen.

Not even realizing he was still doing it, the detective's gaze fell to his middle, and, as he saw his hands cradling the home of his child, Sherlock felt an unmistakeable calm wash over him, shooing away all of the fears and insecurities clouding his mind. "Oh," he sighed, as he felt the weight suddenly release itself from his shoulders. "Thank you, John. Thank you."

In response, the doctor merely smiled and gave his friend's knee a light pat. "There we are. All right now?"

"Mmm. I'm getting there."

"Good…" John thought for a moment, glancing briefly at his friend's recovering form. "Come on," he whispered, standing up and giving his flat mate a warm smile. "We have an ultrasound to go to, don't we?"

Still holding his stomach, Sherlock turned his gaze up to John and suddenly uttered something between a chuckle and a sob. "Yes… Yes, we do."


End file.
